Conversations
by Chapin CSI
Summary: GSR. Romance, humor, drama. A collection of short stories, UNRELATED except where indicated. NEW: Sunday Morning. After the events of 'Dead Doll' Gil takes care of Sara. NEW: Hank's Return. Hank is back and he has an offer Sara can't refuse.
1. INTRODUCTION

CONVERSATIONS

A GSR collection.

This is a collection of stories that are just too short to stand on their own.

There'll be humor, drama, romance.

The stories will be unconnected, except where indicated.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Perfect (romance, humor)

Healing (part 1) (romance, drama)

Healing (part 2)

Stuck (humor) a conversation between Warrick and Nick.

Fame, Interrupted. Humor, romance. After appearing on a TV show, the CSIs get inundated with offers to appear on TV shows. Will Grissom yield to the pressure?

A gesture (romance)

A story inspired by the song I drove all night.

Healing (part three and four) (romance, drama)


	2. PERFECT

PERFECT

GSR. Romance

Spoiler: Way to Go. What did Sara do when she saw Gil's blue shirt?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Grissom sat on Sara's small living room, staring at the darkened hallway that led to her bedroom. Sara had practically fled in there a couple of minutes before, and it didn't look like she was coming back any time soon.

Gil sighed. His intention had been to surprise her, but he hadn't expected her to react quite like this. When she opened the door, she had smiled at him as always, and then –

And then her jaw had practically dropped as she took a look at his outfit. She'd blinked, she'd done a quick double-check… And then, instead of kissing him hello -the way she had always done before- she had stammered a greeting, asked him to please give her a minute, and then she'd hurried back inside.

Grissom shook his head as he remembered all this.

_Well, _he thought, looking down at himself_, It seems that buying this outfit was a big mistake. _

He had been hesitant at the store, but the guy who sold it to him had been enthusiastic about it.

"_It's a relaxed look for you!" _the guy had said, "_Your lady will love it!" _and Gil had bought the entire outfit -flowered shirt and kaki pants- thinking he'd impress Sara with it.

Well, Sara had been impressed, all right, but not in the way he'd meant to.

_At least I didn't let that guy talk me into buying Bermuda shorts,_ Gil thought dryly. It was a small consolation.

He was only trying to do something special for the occasion. He and Sara had slept together several times before, but this was the first time he'd spent the night. Buying new clothes had seemed like a good idea, but now Gil realized that buying something for _her _would have been more appropriate.

'_I should have bought her a plant_,' he mused. '_I could never be wrong with that..' _

Grissom glanced into the hallway again, and this time he noticed the sounds that were coming from Sara's bedroom. It seemed she was opening and closing every drawer in there.

A new thought occurred to Gil. Maybe Sara had suddenly remembered that she was out of, er, supplies? Maybe she was only looking for them?

Gil smiled hopefully. If this was the case, then he would be able to help; he had made some purchases a few days before and had kept them in the car, just in case.

Confidently, Gil rose and went looking for Sara.

He found her in her bedroom, just as she was opening yet another drawer. Gil had a clear view of her face, thanks to the mirror that rested on top of the chest of drawers. There was a look of exasperation on her face.

"Sara?"

She looked up and saw his reflection on the mirror. To Gil's surprise, she hastily closed the drawer.

"Sara?" he asked cautiously, "What are you doing?"

"Oh. Nothing." she said without turning to face him. "Nothing, I was just looking for something."

Sara glanced down and realized that the drawer wasn't properly closed. There were clothes overflowing from it. Reluctantly, she opened the drawer again and tried to put some order in it.

Grissom came behind her and gently leant his chin on her shoulder.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Uh, huh." She said perkily, "Everything's fine."

But he wasn't convinced. He kept looking at her face reflected on the mirror until she looked up. She held his gaze in silent defiance but after a moment she gave up.

"I was just looking for something," she said reluctantly, "Something, hum, lacy and feminine. Something you might like to see me in."

He was sincerely surprised.

"Well… That's very thoughtful of you." he said cautiously.

"The problem is, I've got nothing like that in here," she said, and she rummaged inside the drawer again. "I never even thought of buying anything -"

"That's all right." he said. "I mean… We've been together before." he said reasonably, "You know you don't need to wear anything frilly for me -"

"That's what I used to think until I saw you tonight." she said, "I mean, you got that outfit -" she looked up, "It's new, isn't it?"

"Yeah." he said.

"It's nice," she said.

"You like it?" he asked casually.

"It's cheery." she smiled, "Blue suits you, you know."

Grissom smiled.

"The guy who sold it to me said it would help me project a youthful image." he glanced at his own reflection, "I don't see it." he added dryly.

"You look good." She said.

He looked sideways at her and smiled.

"Thanks." He said.

"But that's my point," Sara said, turning back to look at the contents of the open drawer, "You went out and did something special and I didn't, so… I was looking. Unfortunately, all my clothes are _practical_-"

"And comfortable," he added helpfully.

"They're great for an active life," she continued, "But let's face it, they're passion killers."

That struck him as funny.

"Passion Killers." he repeated, "Now there's a great name for a contraceptive."

Sara narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'm serious." she muttered.

Grissom gently pressed his cheek against hers.

"Sara, nothing you wear could ever be a passion killer."

"Oh, no?" she challenged, "Not even my combat boots or my t-shirts…?"

"No." He said, "See there?" he asked, motioning her to look at her own reflection on the mirror. "See those sweet brown eyes, and the luscious lips, and the freckles…? See how beautiful you are?"

She smiled that half-amused, half-disbelieving smile of hers that was her usual response to Gil's compliments.

"Luscious lips?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes." Gil said firmly. This time Sara's lips tilted into a genuine smile that made him sigh, "Oh, and don't get me started on the smiles," he added pointedly, "Or the big heart, or the sexy voice, or…"

She chuckled.

"All right," she interrupted, "All right, I get it. So, what you're trying to say is that I don't need to wear sexy clothes to entice you."

"Exactly."

"But I could, I don't know, surprise you one of these days?"

"Absolutely." he said.

She tilted her face to him and kissed him on the jaw.

"Thanks, Griss."

Grissom turned, and met her lips with his own. They kissed softly for a while, but just when he was drawing her closer to him, she pulled back.

"Hum, Gil… I need a minute."

"What's wrong?"

"I have to dry my hair." She said sheepishly.

He pulled back to appraise her. Her hair was still damp, indeed.

"It looks fine to me." He said gallantly.

"Thanks, but I've got to dry it. If I don't, hum, my sinuses will start acting up." She seemed chagrined by this admission.

Grissom smiled faintly.

"All right," he said, reluctantly letting go of her.

She kissed him lightly before slipping away.

Gil sat on her bed.

Sinuses.

He smiled. Sara hated to admit what she called her flaws, but Gil didn't mind. To him, it was those little flaws that kept their relationship earthy and real. Those flaws had turned the fantasy girl into a real woman.

Absolute perfection would have scared him.

---- - - - -

THE END


	3. HEALING, part one

CONVERSATIONS

HEALING

PART ONE

A conversation with Lady Heather brings turmoil into Gil's life.

GSR, drama, romance, established relationship.

Beware, LH fans: This is a GSR story, so don't expect a sympathetic portrayal of Heather. No whipping, please.

Spoilers: Lady Heather's Box and Pirates of the Third Reich.

This story starts right after POTTR ends.

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Gil kept his arms around Lady Heather until her sobs started to subside. Once he made sure that she had calmed down, he gently led her to his car. He opened the passenger door and helped her sit.

He hunched down to talk to her.

"Everything will be all right." he said in his softest tone, "I need you to wait here while I -"

"While you call the Police." She finished for him.

Her face was devoid of expression, but the words carried an implicit reproach.

"I have to." He said gently.

"Your faith in your legal system never fails to impress me," she said, "Wrong as it is."

"It's the only system I know," he said gently. "Heather, the sooner we call the police, the better it'll look for you. And they will understand." he added reassuringly, "You've been under a tremendous emotional strain, and -"

"You are already planning my defense," she said softy, "Will temporary insanity help, do you think?"

He stared at her.

It hadn't taken her long to get herself under control again. Her hands were still shaking, but that was about all the emotion she let herself show now. Were it not for the black traces left by her ruined eye make-up, no one would have guessed that she had just been crying.

The death of her daughter had caused her unimaginable pain, but her dislike for public displays of emotion had prevailed. Instead of dwelling on the fact that she had lost her daughter, she had simply shifted the attention back to Gil, and the fact that he had disappointed her yet again by putting his job ahead of her.

He wished he could find a way to explain things to her; make her understand that he could not let her get away with this -even if he'd wanted to. He could not forget that he was an officer of the law.

Besides, she herself had stated their situation perfectly well, a few days before: he had forfeited his rights over her, which meant he had no obligations, either. There was nothing between them, except the memory of a friendship that was cut too soon.

It didn't mean he didn't feel anything for her. Her ordeal had moved him deeply. She seemed to be completely alone in the world, and Gil couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

But looking at her, he realized that while she might forgive him for failing her again, she would never forgive him for seeing her as an object of pity.

Gil held back, then. He rose and walked towards the back of the car. He pulled out his phone and made the call.

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Grissom had been right all along. Surrendering to the authorities had put Lady Heather in a favorable position with the authorities. In time, the DA himself had dismissed most of the charges initially pressed against her.

A few weeks later, after her last hearing, Heather left the courtroom in the company of her lawyers. They were giving her some last-minute instructions, when her attention was drawn to a man she instantly recognized. Gil Grissom.

He was standing in the hallway, his back to her.

Heather dismissed her lawyers and decisively walked towards him.

Her initial impression that he was there because of her case was immediately disproved by the fact that other CSIs were there too. It seemed they were there to testify in a separate case.

One of Grissom's coworkers spotted her and muttered a warning to Gil, who glanced over his shoulder. He briefly turned back to his coworkers and motioned them to wait. He left the little group and came to meet Heather.

She spoke even before he said hello.

"Probation." she said, "Two years."

"I'm glad."

"The judge had some choice words for me." She said bitterly. "About my ability to raise a child." She glanced at the courtroom behind, and then back to Gil, "I could have told him that no words of his could be any harsher than my own. And no sentence any worse than the punishment I've already received."

"Heather -"

"I am not complaining." She said calmly, "It _is _my fault." She said firmly. "I know that."

Before Grissom could say anything, they were interrupted by a bailiff's announcement that a new trial session was about to begin.

Heather saw one of Grissom's CSIs, a dark-haired young woman, immediately rise and call out to Gil.

"The DA's waiting for us," she said when Gil turned.

"I'll be right there." He replied.

"Ok."

Gil smiled faintly at her and watched as she and the other CSI's disappeared around the corner.

When Gil turned back, he met with Lady Heather's penetrating gaze.

"You are having a relationship with her."

Gil's eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly. He was surprised at how perceptive she was. He'd been in a relationship with Sara for some weeks now, yet none of their colleagues had caught on yet.

Lady Heather explained.

"She followed your every movement from the moment you came over to talk to me," Heather explained. "And the tone of your voice changed the minute you talked to her."

Gil bowed slightly, acknowledging the accuracy of her conclusions.

"A much younger woman." She noted.

"Yes." He admitted.

"A dangerous situation."

He didn't comment.

She looked closely at him.

"And yet, the age difference would be the lesser of the conflicts, would it not?" she said thoughtfully, "It's the fact that you are involved with a coworker that weighs more heavily in your conscience." She paused, "It surely opposes the high standards of behavior you've held up so readily in the past."

Gil stared at her.

She was calling him a hypocrite.

He smiled faintly as he realized that he probably was.

"I resisted for years." He admitted. "But she…" he paused, trying to find the right words.

"She was relentless." She suggested, wondering if he would take the chance to save face by blaming the young woman. "She wore you down until you said yes-"

Gil's smile disappeared. What she had just said might be partially true, but he didn't like the implication. It was unfair to Sara.

"What she did was force me to look at myself under a new light." He said softly, "She didn't let on until I finally did." There was a wistful look on his face as he said, "I never thought I could make anyone happy, until I met her. Now I know for certain."

She didn't miss a beat.

"I can't say any of this surprises me," she replied. "Men love liaisons with younger women. Girls provide what every man covets: The illusion of having someone's complete adoration." She looked up, "While an older man provides what some of these women need –the illusion of being protected."

Grissom mused on these words. This time there was a genuine smile on his face as he thought of Sara and how her training made her more than capable of protecting herself -and him, for that matter.

But of course, Lady Heather couldn't know that. Besides, she was talking only metaphorically.

He shook his head.

"We can't go on like this, Heather."

"What do you mean?"

"We can't go on living life according to the rules we imposed on ourselves a long time ago," he said softly. "I spent half my life studying other people's lives. I told myself I was only doing my job –and I was. But the truth is, the more I delved into strangers' lives, the less I had to look into my own life."

He looked at her, "You- you've spent your life studing other people's lives in order to turn their fantasies into reality... But what about your own reality… what about your own dreams? Do you know what they are?"

He had used a gentle, compassionate tone -and this was a mistake. He should have known she would never take compassion from him.

She didn't even acknowledge his words. Instead, she stared at him in the eye.

"So, tell me, Grissom." she said, "What made you change the way you looked at yourself?"

Gil hesitated.

"You," he said at last. He paused for a moment before adding, "It was seeing you cry that made me realize I didn't want to look back on my life and regret my actions -"

She reacted as if he had slapped her. She mastered her features almost immediately, but Gil did notice the effect that his words had on her. He took a step closer.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I'm so sorry, Heather. I didn't say this at the time, but I was really sorry about your daughter -"

"No." She said, her eyes flashing a warning. "I am not going to discuss her. Not with you."

It was then that he came to a sudden realization. He _knew_ too much about her now. He had seen her at her weakest –something nobody had ever done- and for that, she would never forgive him.

She looked up, her expression calm again.

"We all have regrets," she said almost casually. "Secrets. There is very little we can do about them, except keep them to ourselves. Isn't it true, Grissom?"

Gil didn't answer.

She lowered her voice.

"Do you ever wonder about that?" she asked. "How long before your secrets start invading your every day life…? How long before she starts asking you about them?"

Gil shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Hopefully, she will forgive my sins," he said slowly.

"Hopefully," Heather nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me -" she said, and then she briskly walked away.

Grissom didn't turn. For a couple of minutes he simply stood there, staring ahead but not really looking at anything. Heather's words were echoing in his mind.

And then someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

He didn't have to turn to know that it was Sara's. He would always recognize her touch –gentle and unobtrusive, but always reassuring. He turned.

"Hey," she said, "You ok?"

"Yes," he smiled faintly at her.

"The DA called Greg first." She explained. "You're next."

"Fine," he said.

They walked away.

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TBC... next week.

Thank you for reviewing...!


	4. HEALING, part two

CONVERSATIONS

HEALING

Part two.

Healing is all about Grissom coming to terms with the past, and facing the future… with Sara.

Spoiler: Time of your Death

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It was towards the end of their shift that Gil and his colleagues met to discuss the death of Jeff Powell, a man who'd been the unwitting recipient of a gift from his boss: A fantasy scenario created designed to give Powell a night of adventure.

Unfortunately, as Grissom had just put it, Powell had confused fantasy with reality, thus starting the chain of events that got him killed.

Now, as Catherine and Nick examined some of the evidence, Grissom said, "I think fantasies should be kept private."

He had made the comment to no one in particular, but he briefly glanced at Sara, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

Sara stared back at him. He had been making little comments like this all day; in fact, it seemed that after the conversation they'd had with the man who created the fantasy for Jeff Powell, the subject of fantasies had been very much in his mind. Grissom's manner had been subdued ever since.

Trying not to think about it, Sara turned her attention to Nick, who was explaining how Powell had spent his last moments alive.

Grissom kept glancing at Sara. She looked pretty, as always, but there was something about her youthful looks that filled him with regret tonight. He didn't know why.

Maybe it was all that talk about fantasies.

For years, he had treated Sara as a friend and a coworker. He had made it clear that he admired her work, and that he cherished her friendship. He refused to admit that his feelings were deeper that that, or that there was another Sara, a fantasy girl that he conjured up in dreams whenever his loneliness became unbearable.

He never told her, and yet, somehow she knew about the depth of his feelings for her. It was this certainty that made it easy for her to reveal her own feelings for him. She told him, and then she waited. And waited.

She waited until he finally turned to her with an open heart. She took him in, with no questions and no reproaches. It was as if she'd known all along that he'd cave in in the end.

And Gil was glad that he had…

Until now.

Greg interrupted Gil's thoughts. The young man shamelessly praised Powell's boss' generosity -a comment that was obviously directed at his own boss.

"Greg," Sara asked then, "Don't you have a birthday coming up?" she smiled at Greg and then at Gil, who smiled back, acknowledging her mischief.

"I'll settle for a birthday breakfast," Greg replied pointedly, and when Catherine extended an invitation, the both rose and left.

Grissom and Sara stayed in the conference room.

Sara was still smiling at Greg's antics when she looked at Grissom.

Grissom glanced at her and then he looked down. He looked up again, and this time he held her gaze. He didn't smile back at her, though, and after a moment she felt her own smile begin to falter.

"So… Do you want to have breakfast with them?" she asked tentatively.

Grissom didn't answer immediately.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he said gently. "I, hum… have some things to do back in my office."

"Oh." She hesitated. She had expected him to leave early today, but she didn't say so. They had long ago agreed on keeping their relationship separate from their work.

She rose.

"I'll go with them, then."

He smiled at her. "I'll call you later."

"Ok."

Grissom picked up his papers. He truly planned to go back to his office, but as he rose, he realized that he couldn't do that. There was something going on, he knew, and he just couldn't ignore it.

The days when he would simply hope that things would straighten out by themselves were long gone.

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Grissom was sitting at the edge of what passed as a lovers' lane in Las Vegas. It didn't look romantic during the day; there was barely any vegetation, only a few bushes and some dry grass. The magic came at night, when the city below became alive with lights.

But it was quiet at this hour of the day, and Gil appreciated this.

He and Sara had taken a liking to the place, usually coming here at the end of their shifts. Sometimes they had breakfast there, sometimes they simply sat and threw rocks down the canyon. Neither would admit it out loud, but this simple action often helped them relieve the stress of their jobs.

Gil had come to put his thoughts in order. Something was going on in his relationship with Sara.

He didn't understand it; up until today, he'd felt optimistic. He and Sara were getting along just fine, and contrary to what he had expected -and feared- introducing romance in their relationship had not affected their work.

The sex was good, too.

So, why did he feel as if things were not right? Just a moment ago, when Sara was attentively listening to Nick, Gil had felt the return of a nagging old fear of his –the certainty that she should be with someone else. Someone younger –anybody but him.

Gil sighed. It was with thoughts like these that he had justified his reticence towards her, back when he still couldn't admit that he loved her.

Come to think of it, he had never admitted that he loved her. He'd never said the words.

But the point was, he had put those thoughts behind, the minute he and Sara had finally got together. Or so he thought.

Gil threw a rock and watched its trajectory until it fell down below. He looked around for another rock and as he did, he noticed that a car was approaching.

Sara's.

He wasn't surprised. She had probably come for the same reason that he had: to have a little time to herself.

Gil half rose to sit a bit farther to the left, thus leaving a space for Sara. She smiled when she saw him

"I knew I'd find you here," She announced, "I brought you some food." She added, lifting a paper bag.

"Birthday cake?"

"Birthday muffins." She replied as she sat. "Greg is going through a health-food phase. He ordered fresh fruit, an egg-white omelet, and… carrot and raisin muffins." she said, putting the paper bag on his lap.

Gil threw the rock he had in his hand, and both of them watched it fall. He picked up another rock and offered it to her.

Sara took aim and threw the rock. Both watched as her rock fell a bit farther than Gil's.

He smiled at her. Sara didn't return the glance, but she knew he was smiling, and so she smiled too.

Gil turned his attention to the muffins in the bag. He chose one and was about to munch on it, when Sara spoke.

"I've never told you why I fell in love with you, have I?"

She glanced at him. He seemed surprised, but recovered quickly.

He smiled.

"Was it because I was the handsomest teacher at the Seminar?"

"No," she replied playfully.

"No?"

She smiled.

"No." she repeated, "Although you _were_ the handsomest man there."

"Thanks," he smirked. He kept his gaze on her, waiting for her to continue.

"I fell in love with you because you were smart and knowledgeable," she said, "And because you seemed to accept me, just the way I was."

She hesitated before she continued, "I, hum, don't often admit this, but, hum, for most of my life I was considered a pain in the ass by the males in my life. Teachers, classmates, colleagues -" she let her voice trail off, but it was obvious that 'boyfriends' should be included in the list.

She shook her head as she reminisced, "They didn't like the fact that I knew too much or asked too many questions," She tilted her head towards the canyon, "Or that I threw rocks farther than any of them."

"In time," she continued, "I learned that sometimes one had to choose between being smart and being accepted." she glanced at Gil, "I didn't always chose wisely." She admitted.

She turned her gaze to the city below again. "You were different; you seemed to welcome my questions and my interruptions. It was the first time I felt good about knowing things -"

"You were a teacher's dream." he said, "Attentive and smart -" He leant sideways until his shoulder touched hers, "_And_ you had a great smile -"

She leant against his touch.

"What I'm trying to say is… You taught me that I didn't have to sacrifice a part of me in order to fit in the world. I loved you for that." She glanced at him, "I love you for many reasons, Griss. I hope you know that."

He reached for her hand.

"I do," he said softly.

"And you feel the same," she said firmly. Of that, she had never had any doubts.

"I do," he repeated.

She looked closely at him.

"There's something's bothering you, isn't there?" she asked. "All that talk about fantasies -" she took a deep breath, "Is that how you see me? As a starry-eyed girl with a crush on his boss?" she paused, but before he could answer, she scoffed, "Not that I wasn't, once."

He smiled faintly, acknowledging this fact.

"But there's always been more than that." She added, "You know that." She looked at him in the eye, "Something real."

"Yes." He nodded.

She waited for him to say something more and when he didn't, she continued.

"You've been so quiet, these past weeks -" she said thoughtfully.

He was surprised. In his mind, nothing had really changed, at least not until the Jeff Powell case started.

"You didn't say anything," he frowned.

"I didn't want to nag," she said with a half-smile. "And it didn't bother me, really. It's just… when you started talking about fantasies, I wondered if you were having second thoughts about us."

"I am not, Sara." He said. But he was uncomfortably aware that this wasn't completely true.

She looked down at the hand that he had laid on top of hers.

"Remember what I said, a couple of months ago?" she asked, "That we should start with a clean slate -"

"Yes."

"You said that the past sometimes cast a long shadow…" she looked up, "And I said I didn't care about the past." She paused. "I still believe that, Griss."

"Sara -" he started.

"Hear me out." she said gently, "Please." She paused, "I still believe what I said then, but... It doesn't mean that we can't talk about the past, or that I won't listen, or understand… in case you want to tell me about something or, hum, _someone_."

Grissom held her gaze and suddenly, he knew what she was hinting at. It was as if she had spoken aloud: she wanted to know about Lady Heather.

He was surprised, and yet, he knew he shouldn't be. He was aware of the rumors concerning the extend of his connection to Heather. None of his colleagues had ever come out and asked him, but they must have speculated.

Sara must have known, and if she never asked him, it was only because _she didn't care about the past._

Until now.

Now, as Sara forced him to think back on that day at the courthouse, Gil could finally pinpoint the origin of his personal turmoil: Heather's last words. They had affected him more than he'd wanted to admit, then or now.

"I don't like talking about the past," he said softly.

"And yet, it is important to you." She said quietly.

He looked down.

"I just wish I could face you with a clean slate," he whispered.

"Oh, Gil… Forget what I said," she said gently, "We're adults -we obviously have a past. I just thought that being together was all that mattered -"

"I wish it were that simple." He said.

"Just don't push me away," she said softly.

He looked at her.

"I won't," he said. He studied her face, and realized that she was indeed worried. He tightened the hold on her hand, "Sara, I'm not walking away from this relationship."

"All right," she said softly.

But he knew that her worries weren't completely dispelled. Frustrated, he turned to look at the city below. He had come here to clear matters, and he was failing.

He shook his head in defeat.

"Maybe…" he started, "Maybe I just don't know how to handle happiness." he said, "Maybe I never learned."

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the effect that his words had on her. He didn't want to disappoint her or hurt her, but that was probably what he was doing.

When he finally glanced at her, he noticed that she hadn't moved an inch. She'd been staring at him the whole time.

He sighed.

"What a fun guy, huh?" he asked ruefully.

She reached out and cupped his face.

"You are fun to be with," she said.

"Oh, really," he said skeptically.

"Yes, really." she said. She rubbed his cheek and then she leant forward to kiss him.

Sara had intended to kiss him only briefly, but his lips yielded to her, making it impossible for her to draw away. He tasted of the carrot muffins she'd brought, but there was another taste underneath -his own taste, the one that kept her coming back for more.

She was lost, every time she kissed him; her whole body responded to him -to his touch, to the scent of his skin...

She wrapped her arms around his neck. At the beginning of their relationship, she had tried to master this need of hers to lock him in her arms like this. To her, it spoke of a desperate need to possess Gil, and she was afraid that Gil might be put off by it.

But Gil himself had dispelled her fears. He didn't mind being grasped like this at all. It was a possessive gesture, yes, but it was also generous, since Sara was leaving her body exposed to him.

He loved to explore her body. He was gentle with her; careful. His touch told her how much he loved her curves, how much he appreciated everything about her.

They pulled slightly apart to take a breath, but she still kissed him now and then, as if to make sure that he was still there. After a moment, Gil gently lowered her until she was lying on her back. He kissed her lightly, and then laid by her side, with his face pressed into her neck.

"Sara," he sighed. There was tenderness in the way he said her name. He didn't need to say more -she knew what he meant when he spoke like that. He loved her.

"See?" She whispered, "It's fun, being with you."

He scoffed softly. He lifted his head to take a look at her. Her skin was flushed after their brief moment of passion. There was a soft smile on her lips.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

The compliment took her by surprise.

"Oh," She scoffed in self-deprecation. "You're such a sweet-talker."

"I'm learning," he said.

She smiled. She loosed the hold she had on his neck, but didn't release him. Absently, she caressed the curls at the back of his head.

Grissom glanced around.

"You know, this is probably not the most romantic place to be doing this."

"Let's go home, then." she said.

By home she meant _her_ home. Gil hadn't extended an invitation to his place, yet.

"I don't want to move." Gil muttered, "Not yet." he looked down at her again. "I'm sorry about today." Now that they were like this, he couldn't imagine where that insecurity had come from.

"Well… We all have our moments." she said slowly. She paused to let these words sink in, "God knows I've had some of my own," she smiled a little, "I think you've seen me at my absolute worst."

He didn't smile back.

"You haven't seen me at my worst." he said.

She shrugged slightly.

"And how bad can that be?" she said.

He shook his head and didn't answer.

"What's the worst anybody could do?" she asked.

"To kill someone." Grissom blurted out.

"There you go." she said softly, "You've never killed anybody."

"How do you know?" he asked softly.

She didn't miss a beat.

"_I _would know." she said simply, "If you killed someone, you wouldn't rest until justice was done. You'd do something -anything- to restore a sense of balance. Crime and -"

"Punishment."

"Exactly." she caressed his cheek. "You would be too harsh on yourself -"

"But you would forgive me," he said softly.

"I would."

He looked at her. She was being honest with him -he knew that. And yet, there was a single thought in the back of his mind: '_I wish I could believe you.'_

She noticed the conflict in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

He took a deep breath.

"Nothing," he said, and he tried to muster a smile. "Come on," he added. "Let's get out of here."

They rose and shook off little bits of dried grass from each other.

He gently took her arm as they walked back to their cars, but when she glanced at him, he could tell he was lost in thoughts again.

"Griss?" she said before she got into her car, "Whatever it is… You can tell me. Ok?"

He nodded.

"Don't be late," she said before she drove away.

Grissom turned to his car, but before he opened the door, he casually glanced at his own reflection on the side window.

Maybe it was the effect of the morning light on the glass –he didn't know- but suddenly, he had the impression that he was not looking at himself but at somebody else.

A younger person. A kid. A kid looking into a car-

The vision was quickly gone, but it left him shaken. More so, because he knew what it was; not a vision but a memory.

He got into his car but didn't move for a long time.

Finally, he knew what was wrong, and he couldn't help wondering why he didn't realize this before. Yet the answer was easy. It was something that had happened so long ago, it didn't seem like it had anything to do with his present turmoil…

And yet, every secret of his had its roots in that one event.

An old event in his life that he tried not to think of.

He couldn't put it off anymore. He knew this, and yet he was scared, too. He, who had preached countless of times about the need to face the truth in order to have closure, was afraid of facing his own truth.

But he would do it. He had to.

Besides, he wasn't alone, anymore. Sara would be there, supporting him… Forgiving him, too.

If only he could believe it…

--------------------------------------------------------------

Later that day, Grissom went down to the morgue. He found Albert hunched over his work bench. When the coroner saw Grissom, he held up the bloodied brain he'd been examining.

"Cause of death: A berry aneurysm." He announced, even though Gil had not asked.

Grissom was interested, nevertheless.

"Another?" he asked. "You've had your share of those lately."

"It also fits the profile: Male, between the ages of thirty and forty…"

"Do you suspect drugs?"

"Toxicology still hasn't got any definitive answers. Could be a new drug on the market, hard to trace-" Albert stopped. He frowned, "And isn't it a bit early for you to be here?"

"It is. I needed to talk to you."

Albert recognized the tone. Something confidential was about to be discussed.

He put the brain down.

"Go ahead."

Gil leant on the counter. "I need a personal favor," he said tentatively.

"Sure. What's on your mind?"

"I need you to review a case. An old case. I have all the medical records, but they might not be enough," he paused, "An autopsy might be called for."

"All right."

"We would need to go to Santa Monica -"

Albert's eyes twinkled.

"A road trip?" He asked, "I don't get asked on those too often. Sure," he added good-naturedly, "I'll do it, if you clear it with Ecklie."

"I will."

"A personal favor, you said." Albert frowned, "What can you tell me about this case?"

Grissom gulped.

"A forty-two year-old male," he said. "Deceased over forty years ago -"

Albert's eyes widened.

"Wow. It _is_ an old case. Who is this guy?"

Gil looked at Albert in the eye.

"My father." He said.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

TBC


	5. STUCK

STUCK

This is just a silly story. It's GSR although they don't appear in it.

Just a little conversation between Warrick and Nick.

* * *

It was early in the evening, and Warrick pick up Nick on his way to the lab. 

"Thanks, man." Nick said as he buckled up. "My car's still at the shop."

They drove in silence for a couple of blocks.

Absent-mindedly, Nick started to hum a familiar tune. After a couple of minutes, he added the lyrics:

"_Here's a little song I wrote, you might want to sing it note for -'_" Suddenly, he blinked as if he'd just realized what he was doing, and stopped singing. "Damn," He muttered.

Warrick glanced at him but said nothing.

Five minutes later, Nick started again.

"'_Don't worry, be happy now_ –' " He winced and stopped. "Damn." He groaned.

By the third time he did this, Warrick was curious enough to ask.

"What's going on?"

Nick was distracted.

"What's going on with what?"

"You've been singing bits of a song, then you go, 'damn' and stop altogether."

"Oh, I know. It's nothing. I just hate that song,"

"Then don't sing it." Warrick said reasonably.

"Hey, it's not like I _want_ to sing that song," Nick replied, "I just can't get it out of my head," he scowled, "It's my neighbor's fault."

"Cindy Lou?" Warrick smiled. "I thought there was nothing wrong with her."

"And there isn't," Nick replied, smiling back, "I'm talking about my other neighbor. He works days while I work nights, so I'm usually getting up when he gets home. He goes in, puts on some music -very loudly- and, well, you know what they say -"

Warrick frowned.

"What they say about what?"

"That the first song you hear after you wake up's the song you'll get stuck with for the rest of the day."

Warrick laughed out loud.

"That's the nuttiest thing I've ever heard."

"Hey, I'm not the only one who thinks so," Nick said, "Sara had the same problem last night. She kept singing some nonsense about skipping the light fandango and feeling kind of seasick. It was making her crazy but she couldn't help it -the song was stuck in her head. She said it was the first song she'd heard when she woke up."

Warrick didn't immediately comment, but there was a thoughtful look on his face.

"Skipping the life's fandango?" he repeated slowly. "Did she tell you the name of the song?"

"'A Whiter Shade of Pale,'" Nick replied.

Warrick nodded.

"Interesting." he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Nick.

"Oh, nothing. It's just that Grissom was singing the same song yesterday. Only he seemed to be singing it on purpose," he scowled. "Not loudly, of course, but I heard it clearly. He said he'd heard it on this radio station that only plays songs from the sixties."

"Oh."

Warrick glanced at Nick.

"It was the first song he heard when he woke up, so maybe there's some truth in what you said."

But Nick was frowning over something.

"You know, it's funny -"

"What?" asked Warrick.

"I can't picture Sara listening to a radio station that play songs from the sixties."

Warrick smiled.

"Unless…" he said, giving Nick a chance to work out the obvious conclusion.

"Unless, what?" Nick asked.

"Unless she was with Grissom when she heard it."

Nick brooded over this. He gaped when the meaning of Warrick's words finally hit him.

"Oh, no," he said, "You don't think -"

Warrick shrugged.

"Well… she said it was the first thing she heard when she woke up, right?"

"Yeah, but… Come on. You don't think -"

"Hey, I don't _want_ to think," Warrick said defensively, "It's really none of my business."

And he purposefully focused on his driving from then on. He didn't really notice when he began humming. But when he added the words to the song...

"_'Don't worry… be happy_…'" he suddenly stopped, stunned. "Damn, Nck!" he glared.

Nick began to laugh.

"Told ya!"

THE END

* * *

**Here's an excerpt of A Whiter Shade of Pale**

We skipped the light fandango -turned cartwheels 'cross the floor  
I was feeling kinda seasick -but the crowd called out for more  
The room was humming harder -as the ceiling flew away  
I'm convinced that A Whiter Shade of Pale is one of Grissom's favorite songs. The lyrics _are_ nonsensical but it's a beautiful song.

BTW, Be happy's one song that gets stuck in my head whenever I hear it. I go 'lalalalalala' whenever I hear it. The same happens to me with the songs of Shakira. And I hate her singing!


	6. FAME, INTERRUPTED

FAME, INTERRUPTED

Humor, romance, GSR

Spoiler: "I like to watch". I don't remember the name of the true-crime show that the CSIs would appear in, so I invented one.

Summary: Appearing on a true-crime show brings an avalanche of publicity for the CSI crew. What is Grissom going to do?

* * *

Gil Grissom picked up the last folder in his 'in' tray and opened it. He skimmed the contents, quickly and efficiently. 

He had been reading scripts for TV movies, and he had learned to skim over the wordplay and get to the heart of the matter. So far, he hadn't been impressed.

After the night shift's successful appearance on "Las Vegas True Crime," his own life and that of his colleagues had been disrupted by an avalanche of requests for TV appearances and interviews, and book deal offers from editorial houses.

Grissom would have rejected them all, but both the Chief Director and his assistant, Conrad Ecklie, had expressed their interest in doing a TV movie of the week, especially after monetary matters came into discussion. If the movie deal was approved, then the lab would be getting some money -and money was always welcome.

Ecklie had been more diplomatic, pointing out that a movie could be used as an educational tool, too. Grissom agreed on the necessity to educate the public, but he was also adamant about not exploiting their new-found fame.

In the end, the Chief Director accepted twelve scripts written by 'reputable' TV writers, and then he sent them to Grissom for his final approval.

Grissom had tried to be fair; he'd set two baskets, one for scripts that had potential, and one for the rejects.

One hour and eleven scripts later, he had yet to put anything in the 'scripts with potential' basket.

With a sigh, Grissom put the last script in the 'rejects' basket and then he picked up his cell phone. He'd tell the Chief that there was no deal, but first he'd talk to his coworkers. They were going to be disappointed, no doubt about it. Some of them had actually bragged about the offers they'd got, and the famous people who called.

Grissom smiled to himself. It was only human nature. Hey, he would have probably bragged too, if the offers he'd got weren't so ludicrous. For instance, just the other day he'd received an invitation to appear on 'Dancing with the Stars.'

How stupid could TV people be?

---

By the time Grissom went to the conference room, his coworkers were already there. They were standing with their backs to the door, their attention seemingly focused on the coffee machine.

When Grissom entered the room, however, he realized their interest was elsewhere.

"So," Greg said, "If they made a movie about us, who do you think should play us?"

"Only Cameron Diaz could make me justice," Catherine said smugly. She turned to Warrick, "What about you?

"I'm thinking... Seal." he said.

Greg's eyebrows rose.

"The guy Heidy Klumm's married to? He's not an actor -"

"Yeah, but it would be cool -"

"And he has those scars on his face," Catherine interjected.

"Those could be worked into the movie," Warrick replied, "You know, something about an accident at the lab -"

"Sorry, Warrick," Sara said, "Lab accidents are Greg's prerogative."

"And speaking of Greggo," Nick said, "Who should play him?"

"Jake Gyllenhall." Greg said firmly. Then he looked at Sara, "You know who'd do a great job playing you? Jennifer Garner."

"The chick from Alias," Nick said admiringly, "Not bad, Greg. What about me?" he asked, "Who should play me?"

Greg narrowed his eyes, as if studying Nick.

"Billy Ray Cyrus," he said.

"What? He's not an actor!"

"Neither is Seal."

"Well, what about Grissom?" Catherine said. "Who should play him?"

Greg didn't hesitate.

"Sean Connery."

"SEAN CONNERY?" Sara spurted.

Nick snickered.

"Dude, Sean Connery's like, eighty."

"So's Grissom," Greg replied, smiling mischievously. "Ok, so Sean Connery's out. What about Dennis Franz?"

"The guy from NYPD Blue?"

"Eeew!" Sara groaned, "Greg, you can't be serious!"

"Ok, you tell me, then." Greg challenged, "Who do you see as Grissom?"

Nick rolled his eyes.

"I bet she wants Ben Affleck to play Grissom -"

Catherine took a mug and poured herself some coffee.

"Maybe we should ask Grissom who he wants to play him-" she said.

Grissom smiled.

"Cary Grant," he said aloud.

They immediately turned.

Greg was busily –and worriedly- wondering how long their boss had been there listening, but something else caught his attention.

"Cary Grant?" he asked.

Gil pointedly rubbed his chin.

"We have something in common," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Catherine scowled. "We're talking about living actors, Grissom."

"I know," Grissom replied. He glanced around, "I read the scripts they sent me."

"Yeah?" Greg was immediately interested, "And what do you think?"

"All I can say is, I'm sorry to ruin your plans about being portrayed by a movie star, Greggo. I'm not going to sign the authorization."

The response was immediate.

"What?"

"But why?"

"Oh, man -"

"Grissom, this would generate so much publicity -"

"We don't need publicity." Grissom said calmly.

"But think of the merchandise opportunities!" Greg insisted. "It's not just a movie deal, you know? I'm talking about book deals and action figures with our faces on them! A successful movie means games, books! I mean, seriously, there is even talk about a cartoon called CSI Babies -"

"The answer is still no, Greg."

Catherine sighed.

"There goes my chance to have my own line of clothing -"

"What made you decide?" Sara asked.

"Well, to put it succinctly, the scripts sucked." Gil said. He had the folders under his arm, and now he took one. "Take this, for instance," he said. He read aloud, "...By the end of the movie it turns out that Grissom is the real murderer, with Greg discovering it at the last minute."

"And what's wrong with that?" Greg protested.

Grissom didn't reply; he simply turned on the paper shredder and tossed the folder inside.

Greg rushed to rescue the folder.

Meanwhile, Grissom picked up another folder.

"Now listen to this," he said, and he quoted, "Grissom and Catherine have had an on-and-off relationship for years; they have also slept with half the department. The movie starts when their love child returns to Las Vegas as a young CSI named Greg Sanders -"

"WHAT?" they exclaimed incredulously.

Grissom continued, "...Things start heating up when, after a ten-year old absence, Catherine's old boyfriend Ecklie returns -" he didn't finish. He tossed the folder in the shredder, and this time nobody tried to save it.

"Or take this one," Grissom continued, "Grissom and Sara have a relationship unbeknownst to the rest of the crew, and blah, blah, blah -" he rolled his eyes.

Nick intervened.

"Come on, man," he said, "There's nothing wrong with adding a little romance to a story. I mean, think about it; nobody would watch a movie that's all about our work at the lab," he said reasonably, "The writers just want to spice up things a little."

"Well, I'm glad you think so, Nick," Gil replied, "Because this writer wanted to spice up things a bit further. In his script there was another couple keeping a secret affair, and I quote, 'Nick and Greg are engaged in a gay relationship that will become the center of controversy when one of them -'"

"What?" Greg jumped indignantly.

"What?" Nick exclaimed too, but unfortunately the word came out as a squeak. Nick hurriedly cleared his throat, "What?" he asked, in a huskier tone.

"Relax," Grissom said. "I said no to this one, too." he put the rest of the scripts next to the shredder, then he addressed the group, "As for the TV shows that we've been invited to -"

"Oh, yeah," Catherine said, "I've been invited to appear on 'What not to Wear,'" she said, and then she scowled, "I can't imagine why -"

"I've been invited to appear on "The Bachelorette," Greg announced smugly.

"Way to go, dude!" Warrick said, high-fiving his friend.

"Thanks, but I don't think Grissom will authorize the trip," he said, "Unless..." and he looked hopefully at Grissom.

Grissom didn't even bother to answer; he only scowled.

Greg sighed.

"Told ya," he said. "I'm not going."

Sara shook her head.

"I can't believe you'd even consider taking part in that show, Greg. It's exploitative. It portrays women as -"

"It's entertaining," Greg interrupted.

"It's demeaning!"

Nick smiled.

"Would you hold it against me if I accepted an audition for The Bachelor, then?"

"You?" Warrick snickered, "Aren't those Bachelors supposed to be wealthy?"

"Not necessarily."

"I got an invitation from Oprah," Grissom said quietly, and the announcement brought an abrupt stop to the playful banter. Everybody was duly impressed.

"Oprah?" they asked simultaneously, "Oh, wow!"

Only Catherine glanced skeptically at Gil.

"Do you even know who Oprah is?"

"I didn't, but they sent me a tape of the show." he replied, "What's up with this woman?" he asked, sincerely puzzled, "The women in the audience went berserk at the mere sight of her. It was just like a case of religious mass hysteria -"

"It's the power of Oprah, man." Warrick said reverently. "You should take her invitation seriously."

"Yeah," Catherine said, "An interview with Oprah would draw the attention of our work -"

"Not to mention, you'd be the object of attention of all those women," Greg added enticingly.

"Thank you, no," Grissom said austerely. "I believe CSIs should only take part in shows that are serious about science, not about the possible entertainment value of what we do."

Catherine sighed noisily.

"Oh, well," she said, "If that's the way you think, they we'd better say goodbye to all those offers. We'll never appear on TV -"

"Well, I would not say 'never,'" Grissom said coyly.

They all turned to look at him.

"Fear Factor." Gil said simply.

They looked incredulously at him.

"Fear Factor?" They said as one. And then, almost immediately, they all agreed that, of course, it **_had _**to be Fear Factor.

"I should have known," Catherine said, rolling her eyes. "A show with live insects crawling all over a contestant -"

"Of course," Nick said, "It had to be the show where they eat live cockroaches -"

They were disappointed by Grissom's decision but none of them stayed to discuss the matter. They knew that once Grissom made a decision, it was useless to beg.

One by one, they went back to work -all except Sara.

She crossed her arms and looked severely at Grissom.

"You know," she said, "When I said 'for better or worse,' I didn't think that would include having to kiss someone who has bits of insects in his teeth."

Grissom frowned.

"You've kissed me right after I've eaten chocolate-covered crickets," he argued.

"But you didn't eat them while they were still alive," Sara retorted. "Frankly, I'm surprised at you, Gil Grissom. I would think that an Entomologist would protest at the way this show treats its -"

But Grissom's smug smile distracted her.

She frowned.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Sara, they've asked me to go to Los Angeles on February the 20th. If I'm not mistaken, the seminar you're taking in Pasadena starts on the 19th," he paused, waiting for these words to sink in.

A tentative smile appeared on Sara's face.

"We'd be in neighboring cities -" she started.

"Exactly." he nodded. "I'll be on the set of Fear Factor just long enough to let them know my position on the use of live insects. Then I'll simply move to another hotel. In a neighboring city," he added.

Her smiled widened.

"I like that idea."

"It'll be a belated honeymoon," he said softly.

* * *

THE END. 

Any suggestions on other shows the CSIs might be invited to, or the actors that should play them?


	7. A GESTURE

A GESTURE

In this story, I'll assume that Gil never sent the cocoon. (I thought it was sweet of him, but I guess he should have enclosed a note, right? I can only imagine the ton of fanfics this gift will generate!)

This story was inspired by Cindy Lauper's I drove all Night (Billy Steinberg-Tom Kelly).

A few months ago, I woke up with this song in my head; I hadn't heard it in years, and yet there it was. In an eerie coincidence, I saw Cindy Lauper's video of the song that same day! From the start, the song made me think of Gil's imminent departure from the lab, and how it would affect Sara.

Here's the story I came up with:

* * *

Sara Sidle came home early one Friday morning, after a long, twelve-hour shift. She closed the door behind her and immediately set the bolts she'd recently installed. Her building was as safe as it could be, and her neighbors seemed ok, but she believed in taking precautions. 

Without turning any lights, Sara went to her bedroom, taking off her clothes as she did. Her jacket was carefully hung in the closet, but the rest of her clothes were unceremoniously dumped in the wicker hamper she kept in the bathroom.

Here, she turned on the lights, and then she turned on the shower. There was a bucket under it, to catch the water as it warmed up. Then she turned on the turned on the tiny radio she kept on the sink.

The dial was turned to the radio station that Gil favored, and after a moment's hesitation, she left it there. Listening to the music he liked made her feel closer to Gil. She liked to think that somewhere, he was listening to this station too

Thinking of Gil brought a bittersweet smile to Sara's lips.

Just when she had started to feel secure in their relationship, Gil had decided to leave Las Vegas for a month, and now she missed him.

She was worried, too.

The truth was, his sudden departure troubled her. From the moment they met, Sara had seen Grissom as invincible, tireless, and focused on the job he loved. To hear him admit that he was suffering from near-burn out exhaustion had stunned her.

She stepped into the shower and then she closed her eyes as the hot water eased her aching muscles.

And then, a new song started playing on the radio.

_I had to escape_

_The city was sticky and cruel_

'Oh, yes', Sara thought. The city was cruel.

In fact, the case she and Nick had wrapped up the night before would weigh heavily in his mind for a long time.

It was at times like this that she understood why Gil had needed some time off.

_Maybe I should have called you first_

_But I was dying to get to you_

_Could taste your sweet kisses_

_Your arms open wide_

_This fever for you is just _

_burning me up inside_

When she heard this, Sara leant her forehead against the smooth tiles. Oh, God. She missed Gil. She missed his kisses, his arms around her; she missed the lazy smile he turned in her direction whenever he woke up and found she was already awake and looking at him.

_I drove all night to get to you_

_Is that alright?_

_I drove all night_

Sara smiled faintly when she heard this.

For the past week, she'd been fantasizing about driving all night to get to him. In fact, she'd gone as far as researching timelines and possible routes.

By now she knew which airline to contact, which highway to take. If she took a plane and if she drove all night, she would get to him…

_Crept in your room_

_Woke you from your sleep_

_To make love to you_

_Is that alright?_

_I drove all night_

She sighed. Oh, if only she could do that.

But of course, she couldn't. She had an obligation to his coworkers. In Gil's absence, their workload had increased. There was an extra set of hands at the lab, actually, but Sara just didn't trust Keppler. Not because he was a bad CSI -she had no opinion on that. She just didn't think he'd work his ass off for a shift that wasn't his own.

_What in this world_

_Keep us from tearing apart_

_No matter where I go I hear_

_The beating of your heart_

_I think about you_

_When the night is cold and dark_

She sighed as she listened. This was just the way she felt about Gil. And sometimes, she felt this was the way he felt about her too.

_No one can move me_

_The way that you do_

_Nothing erases the feeling_

_between me and you_

Sara paused at this. Would anything ever erase her feelings for Gil? She didn't think so. All the same, there were times when she wondered whether this separation would take its toll on their relationship.

And there were other concerns, as well.

The truth was, deep down Sara felt guilty about Gil's near-burnout. For years, he'd kept his feelings to himself, and he'd kept people at a safe distance.

Sara was afraid that by having Gil enter a relationship –by getting him acquainted with his feelings, so to speak- she might have triggered a chain reaction. It was obvious that opening up to her had lowered Gil's defenses, leaving him vulnerable to the pressures of his job.

Could it be possible that her love for him might hurt him…?

And what if he found that he liked teaching, instead of working at a lab?

More importantly, what if he decided he liked being _alone_?

What if...?

"Stop it." she said aloud.

----

Later, Sara was drying her hair with a towel. When she glanced at her reflection on the mirror, she also noticed the two robes that she kept there. Her trusty, every-day terry-cloth robe shared space with another robe, a silk one she wore when Gil came over.

She smiled faintly. She knew that if she picked up the silk robe, she would find some trace of him there. A scent, a stray hair…

"No one can move me the way that you do," Sara said aloud.

Not for the first time she wished she could say words like those to Gil.

She sighed.

She'd always known that a relationship with Gil would be far from problem-free. She knew there would be conflicts, misunderstandings. She knew he would be far from communicative.

And yet, she's always assumed they'd somehow be able to _talk_.

They did speak -fortunately, their mutual interests were plenty, and they always found something to discuss. But they never talked about their feelings for each other. Sara instinctively knew that Gil would not know how to handle a declaration of love from her, and she knew better than to expect it from him.

She knew that Gil believed in letting his acts speak for themselves. And from these alone, she knew that he loved her. Just the fact that he was cutting down his time at the office in order to spend it with her, told her a lot.

He was sweet and tender, and passionate… But he would never look at her in the eye and tell her that he loved her.

Sara knew this, and had come to accept it.

The problem was that she was finding more and more difficult to hold back. Sometimes, when they were in bed together, she'd turn away, press her lips together until the urge to say, '_I love you,_' faded. Once it did, she'd calmly look at him and smile, and say something like, 'hey.'

It was frustrating, sometimes.

Sara sighed as she dropped the damp towels in the hamper. Naked, she went back to her bedroom and opened a drawer. After a moment's hesitation she picked a pair of cotton pajamas. She put them on, even though she knew she would not be getting any sleep soon.

She didn't even get into bed; lately, it seemed she couldn't fall asleep unless she was utterly exhausted.

Anyway, she'd rather stay awake and think of Gil than fall asleep and have nightmares about the case she'd solved the night before.

Instead, she went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

As she stirred in the sugar, she thought about Gil.

She wished she could feel completely satisfied with what they already had.

"It's just -" she said aloud.

Sometimes she felt she needed more. Words, of course. Or, barring that, a gesture; something that told her, 'this is how I feel about you.'

She needed a gesture from Gil.

And yet, the more Sara thought about it, the more she realized that this wasn't exactly what she needed. Sure, a word from Gil would be deeply appreciated. But what she needed the most, was a chance to express her own feelings.

She wanted to approach him and say, '_Hey, I love you'_. Or, if words failed her, then she wanted to do something that would tell him, '_Here; this is me. This is how much I care._' She wished she could drive all night to get to him. That would be, like, a grand gesture –the biggest.

It would convey her need and her love for him…

But she couldn't do that.

Sara shook her head impatiently. There had to be something else she could do. But what?

She had no idea. It was at moments like this that she wished she read some of those girly magazines she saw whenever she bought Discovery Magazine. At least, she'd have a clue on what to do.

She frowned as she mused on this.

She'd read somewhere that it was perfectly acceptable for a woman to send flowers to a man. So, technically, she could send Gil a dozen red roses –plastic or silk, of course.

She scoffed. 'Yeah, right', she thought, rolling her eyes, '_Send a guy who's staying on campus a dozen silk roses. Why don't you just hire someone to beat him up?'_

She smiled to herself.

But the idea of sending him something intrigued her. Actually, she'd done this before. For his last birthday, she'd ordered a genuine Chicago-style deep-dish pizza to be delivered to his house.

She smiled as she remembered how excited he'd been about this gift; he'd acted as if she'd bought him a brand new car.

Suddenly, this seemed to be the answer. Send him a pizza. Or pizzas, rather, since he was staying on campus. If she managed to have the pizzas delivered on Sunday, he could invite people over, watch some baseball game with the guys…

Why not?

She smiled as she determinedly walked to her desk. She'd log on, order a half-dozen pizzas, pay for overnight delivery -

But just as she was about to sit, someone knocked on her door.

She crossed the room and casually glanced into the peep-hole. She'd half-expected to see some Jehova's witness waiting on the other side. At this time of the day, it could not be anyone else.

What she saw made her jaw drop.

"Oh, my -" she whispered.

Her heart was beating so fast that she was afraid it might burst. Her hands shook as she impatiently turned the bolts.

Finally, she yanked the door open. And then she simply stood on the doorway.

All she could do was _look_; she seemed unable to utter a single word –not even his name.

Grissom was there.

He was looking at her, different emotions playing openly on his face: relief that she was home; happiness at the mere sight of her; love, clearly reflected in his eyes. He was looking at every inch of her face, as if he wanted to make sure everything was just the way he remembered.

When he finally looked at her in the eyes, he noticed that she was speechless.

He knew he ought to explain.

He opened his mouth but the words wouldn't come.

And in the end, he simply told her the truth.

"I drove all night." He said.

* * *

Hope you liked it!

THE END.


	8. HEALING, part three

HEALING

Part 3.

When I started 'Healing', my idea was to base the story on an episode of The Discovery Health Channel's Dr. G, Medical Examiner. Unfortunately, I inadvertently erased the tape. I took a few notes before this catastrophe, but they weren't enough (and in my country, we get the DH Channel only a few months a year, so there's no chance of seeing a rerun any time soon).

Anyway, I'll use my notes and finish the story. I just wish I had more information.

* * *

A couple of days later, Gil sat in Doc Robbins' office. He waited patiently for Robbins to finish reading the last page in the file that lay open on his desk.

Robbins had already read the contents; he was simply making sure he hadn't missed anything. Finally, he closed the file and looked up.

"Well?" Gil asked.

"I've been studying these files -"

"And?"

"There seems to be something missing," Robbins said, "Cardiac arrest is listed as cause of death, but I didn't find anything in his medical records to support it. And your father was a relatively young man. All things considered, I have to to question the doctor's conclusions."

Grissom looked up sharply.

"I'm not saying there's anything suspicious per se," Robbins said cautiously, "But the fact is, someone did a very poor job documenting this case." He paused. "But you already knew that."

Grissom nodded.

"That's the bad news," Robbins said, "The good news is, we can fill-in the gaps." He reached for a pen, "What can you tell me about your father's death?"

"Nothing." Gil glared. "That's why I gave you the files; so you would tell _me_."

Robbins put his pen down.

"Gil, I can't build a case from a few documents written forty years ago," he said. He didn't add that this was something Gil should already know, but it was implied in the slightly patronizing tone he used. "When I work on a case, I have a body to work on in the first place; I have information supplied by the police, CSIs, family doctors. Family members, too," He added pointedly.

"In your father's case," he continued, "There may have been warning signs of heart disease on the weeks prior to his death. Is there anything you can tell me about your father's health at the time?"

Grissom sighed.

"Nothing stands out," he said slowly. "I've often thought about it, but I don't remember noticing anything was wrong."

Robbins nodded.

"Ok. What about your mother, then," he said, "Do you think she can help us? I can give her a call and -"

Grissom was shaking his head even before Robbins finished the phrase.

"This has nothing to do with her," he said.

"Of course it does," Robbins said distractedly as he picked up his pen again. He wrote a few words on a corner of the file.

"I'd rather you didn't talk to her about this," Gil said firmly.

Robbins paused. He focused a piercing gaze on Gil.

"What does that mean?" he asked. He frowned as a new idea crossed his mind, "Gil? Does your mother know about this investigation?"

Grissom didn't reply, which made answer obvious.

Robbins put his pen down, closed the file and slid it in Gil's direction. "If this isn't legal, then I can't help you," he said expressionlessly.

"It is legal," Gil replied quietly. "You've got nothing to worry about."

But Robbins wasn't placated that easily; he stared at Gil, waiting for an explanation.

Gil resisted, but it was a losing battle. He wasn't much younger than Robbins but when the Coroner acted like this, he made you feel like a little boy facing a stern teacher.

"I'm the legal guardian of my father's legacy -financial and otherwise," Grissom said quietly. When Robbins' stare didn't waver, Gil added, "I can show you the documents backing that assertion," A tinge of sarcasm was clear in the tone of his voice as he said, "_That _file is complete."

Robbins kept his gaze on Gil, but finally he gave up.

"Ok." he said slowly. "I believe you." He took a deep breath. "Listen, Gil. I think you should reconsider the situation. Your mother should be informed of this -"

"I know," Gil replied.

He didn't add anything, and Robbins didn't insist.

"Anyway," Robbins said, "If I can't talk to your mother, then there must be a friend or a relative, or even a neighbor who saw your father at the time -"

"I don't think so," Gil said. "Most of them are dead, I think."

"Then -"

"We'll have to go to Santa Monica." Gil said.

Robbins hesitated.

"Gil," he said, "I'll do the autopsy if that's what you want but… It might not yield any conclusive evidence."

"I understand that," Gil said softly. "I just want you to try. Whatever you find… I'll accept it. I trust the evidence more than I'd trust people's recollections, anyway."

Seeing that Robbins was still hesitant about the whole situation, Grissom handed him back the file.

"I need your help, doc," he said humbly.

Robbins reached for the file.

"I'll try to do my best, Gil," he said solemnly. "But there's still something I need to know. You obviously gathered this information over the years –I've seen some of the release forms. Why didn't you pursue the investigation sooner?"

Grissom glanced at the files on the desk as if the answer lay there. His lips parted but he didn't immediately speak.

"I think -" he started, "I think that, deep down, I didn't want to know."

"Why?"

Grissom shook his head.

"I don't know," he said slowly. He looked up, "I guess I was hoping that some day, somehow, I would encounter a similar case. That I would get to investigate it and finally get to the truth."

"This is obviously more than mere curiosity, isn't it? Do you think there was something criminal about your dad's death?"

"No." Gil said, "Nothing criminal. But they were holding back information -"

"Who?"

Grissom hesitated.

"The doctors," he said evasively. "My mother -"

"So are you," Robbins interrupted. He paused for a moment. "There's something you're not telling me."

Gil shook his head.

"I can't get into that now."

"Why?"

Grissom considered resisting but he knew he wouldn't get away with it.

"Because anything I say could alter the outcome of your investigation," he said.

Robbins' eyes narrowed.

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" he asked.

To Grissom's surprise, Robbins rose from his chair.

He was angry.

"Let me get this straight," he said, " You think I would alter my findings in order to make them fit with your expectations? What kind of professional do you think I am?"

"It's not a question of professionalism," Gil said gently. "It's a question of friendship."

Albert frowned over this.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Gil." he said. "I want to help you, here. And I'm going to hand you my findings, no matter what. But I need you to be truthful, too."

Grissom nodded reluctantly. He was about to speak when suddenly, the door opened.

It was David. He nodded at Gil.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said. He looked at Robbins, "They've just brought the bodies from the car collision -"

"I'll be right there," Robbins said. When David left, he looked at Gil. He obviously made an effort to calm down.

"So. When are we leaving?"

"In a couple of days," Grissom said. He rose. "I'll tell you everything on the plane." he added.

* * *

TBC 


	9. HEALING, part four

HEALING

Part 4

* * *

Nick and Sara had processed dozens of crime scenes at hotel rooms over the years. Some rooms were modest and dingy; others were luxurious. Location didn't really matter when it came to crimes of passion, though; the scenes were always bloody and messy. And experience told them that whenever Brass stood by the door, ostensibly waiting for them, it meant that the scene was particularly bad. 

"In here," Brass said, motioning them to enter. As Nick and Sara took their first look at room, he continued, "Victims didn't bring any luggage; said only wanted the room for a few hours. Checked in as _Mr. and Mrs. Smith._" Brass smiled knowingly.

"Not much of an imagination," Nick muttered.

"The manager knew they were using an alias but gave them the room, anyway. _They looked inofensive_, he says."

Nick and Sara's attention was drawn to the blood spatter on the wall, and to the bed, where two bodies lay in various degrees of undress. A man and a woman, as far as they could tell.

David was already there.

"Hey," he said, briefly looking up.

"According to the IDs in their wallets," Brass said, "These are Anthony and Carla Pembroke. Married, with children -" He paused, "Although positive ID will probably have to wait."

Sara saw what Brass meant. The man's face was obliterated by a gun shot. The woman was lying faced down, but judging by the condition of her body, her face was probably disfigured as well; her back was crisscrossed with wealts, some old, some new.

"There was no sign of forced entry," Brass continued, "Were it not for the sound of the gunshot, no one would have noticed anything was amiss -"

Nick and Sara cautiously approached the bed.

"Apparent murder-suicide," David said.

"With some torture thrown in," Sara muttered, her gaze fixed on the woman's torso.

The evidence of violence was more evident on this side of the room. Apart from the blood, there was a gun lying on the carpet, exactly where it must have fallen after the man shot himself. The position of the body practically made it a textbook example.

There was something else on the floor. It was something they should have expected after seeing the wounds on the woman's back, but it still surprised them.

"A whip," Sara said. "That must be her blood, on it."

David, who had finished examining the man, now turned to the woman. He delicately touched her head. He looked up.

"There is blood on her scalp. The skin's torn, though there seems to be no fracture." He gently started to turn the woman. He stopped after seeing her face, "The real damage's here," he said.

Sara purposely turned away. She started taking snapshots at the weapons. By a tacit agreement, Nick turned his attention to the bodies. He swabbed the man's hands for GSR.

"We will have to wait for fingerprints or DNA for a definite ID," he said after David gave him his preliminary report. .

"An assistant will be taking the bodies back to the morgue after you're finished." David said briskly.

"An assistant?" Brass frowned.

"I've got to go back to the morgue," David said apologetically, " I'm working solo tonight."

"Oh, yeah." Nick nodded, "I heard Robbins left for Santa Monica today. He's joining Grissom for a seminar or something, isn't he?"

"That's what they said," David muttered.

Nick smiled.

"What, you don't believe them?"

"Two words," David replied, "Spring break."

"Spring break?" Nick repeated, smiling widely, "Are you saying that Grissom and the doc are somewhere, drinking and chasing girls?"

"Well, they're not on a seminar," David retorted. Then he backed off, "Nah, don't listen to me," he said apologetically. "It's been a busy week; I'm just tired," he waved at them and left.

Nick turned and glanced at Sara.

Sara studiously averted her gaze. She hunched down to take pictures of the whip. As she leant forward, she noticed something peeking under the bed. A card. She picked it up.

"Look," she said, lifting the card.

Nick glanced at it, then frowned and took a closer look. The card was blank except for a name and a phone number written on a corner.

It was the name that got his attention.

Lady Heather's Dominium.

---

TBC

Next, a brief conversation between Sara and Lady Heather.


	10. HEALING, part five

HEALING

Part five

Spoiler: WTG (mention of corsets)

SOLV and LH'B

I had this chapter in my head from day one but didn't get into it till I heard that LH was coming back.

CSI usually portrays LH under a positive light but I don't.

* * *

Nick and Sara were still working on the Pembroke's case. A day after the grisly discovery, they drove to Lady Heather's house.

Nick was behind the wheel but Sara knew his attention wasn't wholly on the road. He kept glancing at her. Sometimes it looked like he was going to say something, only to hold back.

It was making her nervous.

She looked down at her notes yet again. It had been confirmed that Anthony Pembroke had killed his wife and then committed suicide, but there was some question as to when and where some of her injuries had been inflicted. Their home was ruled out after a search; they didn't find any evidence there -no leather clothes or any of the paraphernalia usually associated with a sadomasochistic lifestyle.

There were many clubs they could have gone to; but one of them caught their attention the minute they found that card in the motel room. That card gave them probable cause to visit Lady Heather for a friendly chat.

More than a chat, actually; they had a search warrant.

Nick cleared his throat yet again.

"Sara? Are you sure you wanna do this?"

Sara squirmed uncomfortably. She knew what lay behind Nick's question; it was a tactful reminder of the rumor that had circulated a few years before, when Grissom took a case that Lady Heather was involved in. There was talk of a brief affair, but the rumor was never substantiated and it died soon after.

Nick's words evidenced a friendly concern for Sara. He knew of her feelings for Grissom –he'd known from the beginning. Whether he knew that those feelings were requited now, Sara didn't know -and she wasn't going to ask.

She just didn't want to discuss Grissom.

Nick tried again.

"Me and Brass can do this, you know."

"This is my case, too, Nick," she replied testily. She was starting to resent Nick; if he thought she could not handle meeting a woman Gil may or may not have been involved with, then he was mistaken. To Sara, this was a case like any other.

"I don't think Grissom would have let you work on this case," Nick muttered.

"He's not here," Sara replied, and then she glanced outside, hoping Nick would take the hint and drop the matter.

Nick took the hint, but the damage was done.

Sara sighed.

She'd tried not to think of Grissom these past couple of days –but how could she not? He'd been acting strangely lately and then he'd suddenly left, almost with no explanation, except to say that it was work-related.

Sara didn't have reason to doubt this since Doc Robbins was scheduled to come along too; but when Robbins was forced to delay his trip a couple of days, Sara felt suddenly apprehensive.

Frankly, she didn't like the idea of Gil all alone in Santa Monica.

She didn't like the idea of Gil gone, period.

Their relationship was too new to withstand a separation.

This last thought made her frown. Suddenly, she wondered whether Nick might be right after all. Maybe meeting Lady Heather was a bad idea. Sara was feeling too vulnerable right now, and she was bound to make mistakes...

But it wasn't like she had a choice. She had a job to do.

When Nick looked at her again, Sara turned and met his gaze.

"You don't have to worry." She said firmly. In a softer tone, she added, "I can handle it."

---

There were three people facing Lady Heather but she was not looking at them. Her gaze wandered away, as if searching for another face.

Sara didn't miss this. Neither did Brass.

"It's only us, Lady Heather," he said amiably. "Your neighborly cops. And we have a warrant," he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket.

"Captain Brass," she said, acknowledging him, "May I inquire what this is about?"

"Of course," Brass said. He turned to Nick and Sara, "Give me a minute." He said, and he waited for Lady Heather to motion him inside.

Sara frowned at this. Usually, they simply handed a warrant and then barged into a house.

"What is he doing?" she whispered to Nick, "We've never showed this much consideration to a suspect."

Nick whispered back.

"But this is a suspect who probably has the names and phone numbers of our top judges and politicians in her little black book. The issuing judge wants us to be cautious."

Sara shook her head.

Brass returned.

"Ok. We can go in," he said, "Listen up. The warrant covers the basement and the rooms on the first and second floors, including her private office. It doesn't cover the garage and the bedrooms on the top floor."

When Sara frowned over this, he added, "It doesn't cover those rooms, Sara." He motioned them to enter, "Go on."

Nick and Sara entered the mansion. Lady Heather was standing by the wide staircase.

She looked at Nick.

"Anthony and Carla Pembroke were my clients," she said. "I saw them on Thursdays. They had a two-hour session –from five to seven- and then they left. It was a routine we never strayed from. In fact, I was expecting them today."

She was volunteering the information, which was good.

Sara ventured a question.

"Do you know whether they went to other establishments?"

"I doubt it." Lady Heather replied promptly but her gaze never left Nick, "They had made a commitment with me."

"A commitment?" Sara asked.

"Their education depended on their absolute trust in me."

Nick squirmed a little under that penetrating gaze. To cover for his confusion, he started putting on his latex gloves.

Sara, irked at being ignored by Lady Heather, intervened.

"We will need a full disclosure of any records concerning Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke."

"Certainly," she said graciously, still looking at Nick. "I'll tell my assistant." she glanced at the kits on the floor, "Of course, if you told me what you're looking for… then maybe I could save you time and resources. The Pembrokes didn't die here -"

"We know they didn't die here," Nick replied. "But we need to know how far your sessions went. If there is evidence that he mistreated her here, then you could be charged as an accessory."

Lady Heather frowned.

"An accessory?"

Sara quickly intervened. Nick was revealing too much.

"Uh, Nick?" she asked, "Why don't we split? You go downstairs; I'll take care of the rooms above."

"Are you sure?" he asked protectively.

"Yeah."

Nick walked away –he already knew the premises- and Sara remained in the foyer. Lady Heather didn't move.

Sara's hunch had paid off; she knew Lady Heather would not follow Nick but stay with her.

---

Lady Heather sat on one of the cozy chairs by the fire place, watching as Sara examined her private office.

"So, where is Grissom?" She asked.

Sara was clearly irked by Lady Heather's casual mentioning of Gil but she didn't reply. Instead, she focused on her work.

So far, the search had yielded nothing of use. Sara had gone through all of the rooms in the second floor and they were immaculately clean. Contrary to what she expected, there wasn't much to take to Trace. Chains and whips and leather outfits were obviously cleaned up after each session. Even fingerprints were few.

Lady Heather's office was much more interesting, if only because it looked like it had been decorated to please someone other than a client. The sadomasochistic themes weren't as ostentatious. The few pieces Sara saw seemed more ornamental than functional; antique, even. In fact, some of them had been originally intent for beautifying purposes, not torture.

Sara smiled faintly when she saw a corset framed on the wall. It was an authentic, whale-bone corset, just like the ones described by Mr. Phillippe a few months before. Sara's smile faltered a little as she realized that here was the source of Grissom's information on corsets.

She wasn't that surprised by the discovery; but it was one thing to suspect and quite another to have your suspicions confirmed.

She'd refused to think of Grissom and Lady Heather together, but now she couldn't help wondering about their relationship.

How far did it go?

Sara turned to the fireplace, and her gaze was immediately drawn to a leather mask lying on top of a mantelpiece. Without knowing why, she picked it up.

Lady Heather smiled.

"He was interested in that mask, too," she said, "Grissom, I mean."

Sara held back an impulse to drop the mask. Instead, she looked up.

"Do all your clients wear masks like this?"

"If they want to, yes. It implies blind trust in their partners," she added, seemingly warming up to the theme, "It's only when fear no longer constraint them that they become truly free to feel -"

Sara shook her head.

"If your clients need to put on a mask in order to _feel _-"

Lady Heather smiled.

"Love alone can not sustain a relationship, Ms. Sidle," she said softly, "Love is the greatest manipulation device there is; but it is not enough."

"So, people come here out of boredom and then they put on a mask," Sara said sarcastically. She didn't wait for Lady Heather to reply, "Did Anthony and Carla Pembroke have any contact with your other clients?"

"If they did, it was without my knowledge," she said firmly, "I would not have recommend it; their instruction was not complete yet."

"This education you spoke of, what exactly did it entail?"

"Submission and domination -"

"Sadomasochism," Sara said bluntly.

"That word has connotations," Lady Heather said indulgently, "But their education entailed much more." She paused, "If you are interested, then I could give you a courtesy password to my website -"

"I'm interested in the Pembrokes," Sara interrupted.

"They were a middle-class couple with aspirations." Lady Heather said readily, "Like most couples in a long-term marriage, they had recently found themselves at odds with each other. He had climbed the ladder in his profession -he had a new job, a new home, and new friends. Carla, on the other hand, was still the same woman he had married six years before, when he was just another CPA in a small corporation."

Lady Heather leant back in her chair.

"He wanted an equal partner, not a childish, insecure woman," she explained, "Carla had yet to release her potential -"

"And that's what you were helping her with? How did you expect to accomplish that?"

"By giving her the power to make her own decisions." Heather said. "Carla -" she paused, sighed, and continued, "She behaved like a little girl sometimes. She expected his husband to be in charge of every aspect of their lives. She needed a father figure but her husband wanted a _wife_. He was starting to lose patience around her. A compromise needed to be reached."

"And that compromise included having her husband flog her till she bled." Sara's face was expressionless but the tone of her voice exuded contempt.

Lady Heather smiled tightly.

"It was not as simple as that. It was up to Carla Pembroke to decide when and where -and how far they would go. She was learning to be assertive; she was learning to tell her husband what she wanted. She was learning how to say, 'go on,' and 'stop.'"

Sara shook her head incredulously but didn't say anything.

"I don't expect you to understand." Lady Heather said. "Carla Pembroke never outgrew the patterns learned in childhood," she explained, "She'd never been in control. But she was willing to learn."

She smiled, "Wouldn't you go to a therapist to get help, Ms Sidle?" she asked, "They visited a dozen therapists before coming to me. Here, they felt free to talk about their needs for the first time. Their wants and their fantasies."

Lady Heather rose from her seat, "I didn't judge them. I never do," she added as she came to stand by the fireplace, "Here, people find a haven. A place where they can be themselves -"

"For the right price," Sara replied.

Something in Sara's tone made Lady Heather pause.

"I thought investigators were supposed to approach their jobs with an open mind." she said. When Sara didn't reply, she added, almost to herself, "Or maybe I have simply grown so used to Grissom that I expect everybody else to be like him."

There was a faraway look in her eyes as she added, "He is the least judgmental man I have ever met." She looked curiously at Sara. "Does this open-mindedness make it difficult for you to work with him?" she asked, but without waiting for an answer, "Unless, of course, he has kept that personal trait a secret from you -"

"He hasn't," Sara said, more testily than she'd intended to. She didn't want to talk about Grissom but she couldn't stop herself. "He leaves judgment to others," she added, "He has a great deal of compassion, but he's far from blind to people's frailties and transgressions."

So far, Sara had managed to avoid Lady Heather but as she turned she found herself face to face with the dominatrix.

The woman looked perfect -not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her black dress, not a smudge in her make-up. She was smaller than Sara but she didn't look it. She seemed all-powerful and in control. Suddenly, Sara understood how an insecure woman like Carla Pembroke might be mesmerized by Lady Heather, to the point of giving up her destiny.

She also understood why a man -any man, even Grissom- might be fascinated by her.

Sara involuntarily glanced at the necklace with crucifix that Heather wore.

The older woman noticed.

"Pain purifies us." She said, and then she touched her crucifix, "The passion of the Christ involved bondage, flagellation and crucifixion as He _willingly_ submitted to a higher power. Submission isn't negative, Ms Sidle; it is getting rid of the burden of self with all its conflicts, burdens and limitations; it is giving in to the longing to serve, to submit, to abandon oneself sexually, emotionally -"

Sara shook her head.

"You equate pain with pleasure," she said, "All I can think of is bruises, torn flesh and blood -"

"Your mother's broken bones and bruises?" Heather asked abruptly.

Sara flushed. She didn't expect Lady Heather to be so perceptive.

Heather took a step closer to Sara. She lowered her voice, "I can seize up anyone who crosses my door," she said, "I know their wants, their secret longings. Their _hurts_," she added, looking closely at Sara, "Their fears and their insecurities -"

Sara met Lady Heather's gaze.

"That almost sounds like a threat," Sara said expressionlessly. "Do you use that knowledge against your clients?"

"Of course, not. But I know them; I know them better than they know themselves. Take Grissom, for instance. He seems mysterious," she smiled. "And yet, he is like an open book to me."

Sara shook her head.

"I wouldn't like to know everything about him," she said. "I'm not afraid of being surprised."

Lady Heather didn't acknowledge Sara's comment.

"What happened to your mother is against everything I believe in," she said in a compassionate tone, "I suppose it shaped your life." She looked curiously at Sara, "Is that what first attracted you to Grissom? The fact that he was so different from your father?

Sara's flush deepened. Lady Heather's words angered her but she managed to hold back.

"A gentle man," Heather added, "So focused on his work that he'd never turn to physical demonstrations of any kind?"

This made Sara smile.

"Actually, I've never analyzed my first impression of Grissom," she said casually, "To be honest, at the time I just thought he would be good in bed."

Sara paused just enough to see the shock on Lady Heather's face. Clearly, she didn't expect such a blunt response.

"And you know what?" Sara added, "He _is_."

Heather's smile froze on her face.

Sara put the mask back in its place and turned away. She had let her temper get the best of her and she regretted it. She had to remind herself the reason behind her presence there. She noticed a whip on the mantel. She picked it up.

"This is similar to the one found near the Pembrokes." She said.

"I sell them in my website," Lady Heather explained, "Item Nr. 4560."

Sara snorted.

Lady Heather's eyes narrowed.

"It's because of people like you that others must remain in shadows." She said resentfully.

Sara smiled bitterly.

"It's people like me who end up cleaning up the messes left by others," she replied.

The older woman shook her head.

"I don't blame you for having prejudices," she said, "You are simply a victim of society's selective study of the past. In the Western religious tradition, the desire to be beaten and whipped reflected the desire for "penance" which often involved humiliation, shame, pain, worship and submission -"

"Does that mean you are going to do penance over the Pembrokes' deaths?"

"I had nothing to do with their deaths." Heather replied, "They were having money problems -that much I knew. And Mr. Pembroke's new job forced him to deal with unsavory clients -"

"They weren't killed by an unsavory client, Lady Heather," Sara retorted. "Anthony Pembroke beat his wife to death."

Lady Heather's eyes opened wide.

"Captain Brass didn't mention that," she said. "He only said they'd been killed -"

"Anthony Pembroke broke every bone in his wife's face," Sara replied, even though she was not supposed to reveal this, "He didn't give her a chance to say 'stop', Lady Heather. He struck at her and then finished her off with a whip like this. There was rage in the way he handled her. They had a history of domestic violence -did you know that? Did you really know them -at all?"

Lady Heather was shocked.

"They were doing fine," she said as if to convince herself, "She was gaining confidence -"

"They were fine as long as they were in this -this haven," Sara replied, "But then they had to go back to the real world. They couldn't manage on their own. A therapist would have probably recommended a separation. You gave a whip to Anthony Pembroke –it was like handing him a loaded gun."

"Sara?"

Nick was standing at the door.

"We're finished, downstairs," he said.

Sara took a deep breath.

"I'm finished here, too," she said. Her hand was trembling a little when she handed the whip to Lady Heather.

----

"Nice speech," Nick said as they walked to their Tahoe.

"I lost my temper," Sara muttered apologetically.

"Yeah, but apart from that, you did good." Nick said admiringly. "You held your own back there."

Sara grimaced.

"To tell you the truth, I think I wanna puke right now."

Nick laughed.

"That's ok, I'll stop somewhere for you."

* * *

TBC

Next, Grissom and the Doc have a talk by the dock (it rhymes!)

Parts of LH's words on masochism were taken from "Masochism as a Spiritual Path" by Dorothy C. Hayden, LCSW


	11. HEALING, part six

HEALING

Part 5

Spoiler: In "Cats in the Cradle," Gil reveals that his mom is deaf. In "Still Life," he talks about his father's death.

As I said before, part of this story is based on an episode of Dr. G Medical Examiner. I lost most of the information from that show, but I did a little research; most of the medical information here was taken from Encyclopedia of Surgery: Guide for Patients and Caregivers.

In the episode of Dr. G, the autopsy was performed almost immediately after death; in my story, the body was exhumed after more than 40 years.

* * *

"I hadn't come to the beach in years," Al Robbins said.

"Me, neither," Grissom said, smiling back.

They were standing on the boardwalk, looking at the ocean.

It was late in the evening, and the shore was almost completely deserted. Most of the visitors had taken refuge in the many restaurants fronting the beach.

It was getting cold, but neither Grissom nor Robbins complained.

"Just look at that," Robbins said. He wasn't pointing at anything in particular but Grissom knew what he meant; from their spot, everything looked picture-perfect.

"You know what I'd really like to do?" Robbins asked suddenly. He glanced around before adding, "Take a walk down there."

And before Grissom could say anything, Robbins walked towards the wooden stairs.

"You sure?" Grissom asked as Robbins took the first step, "You're not tired from the flight?"

"Nah," Robbins called out over his shoulder, "I'm fine!"

Robbins managed the stairs but he did hesitate as he stepped onto the loose sand.

Gil refrained from offering help but followed him closely all the same. The doc had a difficult time at first, but the closer he got to the surf, the easier it became for him to walk. The wet sand made for a firmer ground.

Robbins stopped and looked down at the water gently lapping at his boots.

"This is what I've missed the most," he said candidly, "Getting my feet wet."

Grissom involuntarily glanced at Robbins artificial limbs. It was something they rarely talked about -if ever. Robbins' disability was never an issue at the lab.

It wasn't until Robbins firmly planted his crouch in the wet sand and start to bend down that Gil showed some concern.

"What are you doing?"

Ignoring Gil's question, Robbins managed to sit on the sand. He stretched his legs with satisfaction. He smiled at Gil.

"Since I can't get my feet wet, I'll get my ass wet," and he placidly sat back to enjoy the surf.

Grissom stared at him for a moment. Then he smiled and, without hesitation, kicked off his shoes and socks and stepped into the water until it reached his ankles.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd missed the clean, salty air.

That was not all he'd missed. As he stood in the water, he perceived the roar of the ocean and the assorted sounds that belonged to the beach; seagulls, boats, the wind.

"I used to love this," he said almost to himself. "And yet -"

He didn't finish. He'd just remembered how, as a child, he'd denied himself simple joys like these.

And the reason was simple.

"When I was a kid, I used to wish that I was deaf," he said. He glanced at Robbins, who nodded in understanding.

"You wanted to be like your mother."

"I wanted to have something in common with her," Gil admitted, and then he looked away again.

As child, he'd envied the bond his mother shared with her deaf friends and students. He'd longed for that special closeness while knowing all along that it was out of his reach. Still, he tried.

"I used to put wet cotton in my ears to block out the sounds," he said.

Robbins smiled.

"Did it work?"

Grissom smiled briefly and shook his head.

"It didn't. Sounds kept intruding."

Robbins waited for more confidences but when none came, he cleared his throat.

"Gil, I don't mean to pry but -" he looked up at his friend, "We need to talk."

"I know," Grissom said quietly. "I just don't know where to begin," He glanced at Robbins, "I don't like talking about myself, you know."

"That, my friend, is an understatement," Robbins said with gentle sarcasm. "Why don't you start by telling me about your father? What he did for a living, what his hobbies were -"

Grissom came out of the water and sat a few feet away from Robbins.

"He was a botanist," Gil said, "A teacher. He loved books. He -"

He stopped. He'd just realized he sounded as if he were merely repeating some well-learned lesson.

He looked at Robbins.

"You know, for the last week or so I've been going back in time, trying to remember anything related to my father. I've gone through his notes and I've looked at his pictures, but for some reason, I can't remember him.

"I can recognize his face in a picture," he added, "If you pressed me, I could probably come up with some sort of description. But I can't remember what he was like. I _know_ he was a teacher but I can't recall his voice or his smile. It's as if for the last years I've only thought of his death, not his life."

He was lost in thought for a moment, and then he said, "He was a gentle man; that much I can recall. Patient -"

When Gil paused again, Robbins realized the time had come for him to start to pry.

"What can you tell me about his health?" he asked gently, "I don't mean just in the last days of his life, but in general terms."

"Well… He was healthy, as far as I knew."

"What about exercise," Robbins continued, "Did he practice any sports?"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"No. He didn't really do much exercise. He kept a small garden in the back of our house," he added. "He spent Saturday mornings there, working, collecting specimens, taking notes; and that was about all the exercise he did."

Robbins nodded, mentally taking notes.

"Did he complain of headaches, blurred vision -"

Grissom was silent for a moment.

"Headaches," he repeated. "It's funny, your mentioning that," he said slowly, "I think I remember seeing a bottle of aspirin among his things." He looked at Robbins, "Why do you ask?"

"It's evidence," Robbins said simply. "Every little bit of information helps. What else can you tell me about your father's activities? Besides teaching and gardening, I mean."

"Well… He spent most of his free time in-doors, studying or simply reading." He paused for a moment, and then he added, "He would sit in the family couch, and surround himself with stacks of books and magazines. He was always saying he would get a proper desk and a chair, but he never did." Then he smiled, "I think he liked being close to us, in the family room-"

Gil was lost in thought for a moment, and Robbins didn't dare to interrupt.

"I remember this one time," Gil said after a moment, "We were in the living room. My father was on the couch, reading something and taking notes, and I was watching TV," he glanced at Robbins, " I was sitting on the floor, right in front of the TV, trying to follow the story by reading the actors' lips."

Robbins smiled at that.

"And you had your earplugs," he said.

Grissom nodded. He looked back at the sea as he continued.

"We were alone that day," he said. "Actually, we spent a lot of time on our own, that summer. My mom was teaching a course that kept her away most of the day. She would come back early in the evening, and -" he smiled faintly at the memory, "She would never come in through the front door; she always walked around the house and came in through the kitchen."

"Why?"

"She liked to fix something for my father to drink. Hot chocolate if it was a cold day, cold lemonade if it was hot. It was a little ritual of theirs," he said, glancing at Robbins, "My father would pretend not to notice she was in there, and so when she came in carrying a drink, he acted like it was a huge surprise."

"That day she came in carrying a glass of cold lemonade." Gil said quietly, "She had this huge smile on her face as she looked in my father's direction. She was anticipating his reaction -"

And he still remembered how her expression changed -not suddenly but gradually, as it dawned on her that something wasn't right. Her eyes widened and her lips parted and the glass of lemonade fell from her hand and shattered on the floor.

To Gil, this was the first sign that something was terribly wrong. His mother was never this careless; keeping a neat household was important to her. He immediately rose to help her clean up, but his mom's attention was not on the broken glass but on her husband. She rushed to him.

Gil thought his father was merely asleep. He was slumped on his back, his mouth slightly agape.

Gil wanted to take a closer look but his mother wouldn't let him. Instead, she signed frantically at him, telling him to go and fetch the neighbors. In a daze, Gil ran and called on the neighbor next door, then he ran back, only to be told by his mom to go up to his room and stay inside.

Gil obeyed.

He stayed in his room for what felt like hours. He stood by the window, looking as people rushed into the house -first the neighbors, and then the paramedics carrying a stretcher.

It was the ambulance's arrival that gave Gil a hint of what was happening. He'd never disobeyed his mother but this time he just couldn't stay in his room anymore.

He opened the window and looked down. His room was on the third floor, but he'd fantasized so many times about climbing down the trellis that his father had recently installed, that he didn't hesitate. He wasn't an athletic boy but he managed.

He was about to reach the ground when he saw the paramedics coming out of the house. They had the stretcher with them, and they were carrying something covered with a white sheet.

"Kids today see scenes like this on TV every day," Grissom mused, "They immediately know what's going on. But when I was a kid, we didn't see things like this -not even in the news. So I didn't quite know what was going on. But a part of me guessed."

"I ran to the ambulance but wasn't fast enough. They'd closed the doors just before I reached it. I tried to look inside but -" But all he could see was his own reflection on the windows.

"I never saw him again," Gil said, almost to himself.

"Never?" asked Robbins.

Gil shook his head.

"They didn't let me attend the wake," he said. "The next time I saw him, he was in a closed casket, being lowered into the ground."

Robbins didn't say anything for a moment.

"What happened after the ambulance left?" he asked gently.

Grissom didn't immediately reply. He couldn't tell Robbins what happened next because it had the quality of a dream. He didn't remember _walking _back to the house; he only remembered entering the living room and meeting the glances of what looked like dozens of people. In reality, there couldn't have been more than a half-dozen people in there, but that's how he remembered that moment.

He also remembered his mother's laments -the wordless moans, somehow muffled by the cotton still lodged in his ears. Gil had forgotten all about it, and it was then that he mechanically reached and took the cotton balls from his hears.

And his mother looked up just in time to see him do this.

"Did you climb back into your room?"

Robbins' words put an end to Gil's recollection.

"No. I went back into the house." He glanced at Robbins, "I guess I knew my mom would not reprimand me."

"What did she say?"

Gil shook his head.

"Nothing," he said. "No one would tell me anything. They would stop talking, the minute I entered the room. I guess they thought I was too young," he said, shrugging slightly. "I did find out but only because people tended to speak louder when my mother was around. People do that to deaf people, you know."

Robbins nodded.

"I started catching bits of conversations here and there," Gil added, "I heard my father's doctor say something about a heart attack and a seizure –only he didn't sound very convincing."

Grissom looked at Robbins.

"He should have requested an autopsy but didn't. I believe he signed the death certificate out of consideration for my mother," he said, "And for me. I think they were trying to shield me."

"Gil -"

"I was alone with my father, Al. It's obvious that I should have done something for him. They obviously thought so."

Robbins cleared his throat.

"Gil, guilt is a powerful feeling," he said carefully, "Sometimes kids -" he paused when he saw Grissom shake his head almost imperceptibly, "You were a _kid_, Gil," he said firmly, "There was probably little you could have done."

"You don't know that," Grissom said softly. "At the very least, I could have -" he hesitated, "I could have been there for him. Hold his hand. Instead, I kept watching TV. No one ever said anything to me, but – Well, except for this aunt who kept telling me not to worry -that it wasn't my fault."

Robbins sighed.

"Adults make mistakes like these all the time," he said ruefully. "They think they're protecting the kids, but they're not. They should have talked to you frankly. But what about your mother? Didn't she ever broach the subject?"

"Not really," Grissom said evasively. "But then, there was barely any time," he added. "We had so much to do. We moved almost immediately; we started over in different city. Then we just -" he hesitated as he searched for the right words, "We both grieved him in our own, separate ways."

The truth was, he and his mother rarely talked about anything at all. But Gil's dad was a specially painful subject. They could never bring themselves to mention him.

But he wasn't forgotten.

Gil's mother cherished her husband's memory; she kept most of his clothes and his books, and she lovingly preserved his work.

That there was a darker side to this devotion was something that few people knew. She kept a semblance of a normal life outside her home but once inside, she acted as if her husband had only gone out for some errand. It was a harmless way of dealing with the pain; harmless but painful to watch…

"For years I thought, 'if only I hadn't put cotton in my ears, then I could have heard him," Grissom said, "But I _should_ have heard something, right? If he'd had a heart attack or a seizure, he would have trashed around on the couch. But he didn't. I started to wonder -"

Robbins was looking at Gil with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment.

"And this is something you've kept to yourself all these years," he said.

Grissom smiled a little at this. Robbins still found it difficult to believe that Grissom hadn't tried to find out sooner.

"I guess I'm not quite as zealous about the truth when it comes to my private life," he mused. "I don't know," he added, slightly shaking his head, "Maybe a part of me didn't want to know. Or maybe I simply didn't think knowing the truth would make any difference," he added. "But now -"

When he didn't finish, Al prompted him.

"Now?"

Now he'd come to realize how his father's dead and its aftermath had colored every aspect of his life. The guilt he'd felt had created an abysm between him and his mother - and the rest of the world, too. It had turned him into a secretive person, someone who kept his feelings to himself.

Not that it really mattered; he got used to being alone. If his half-hearted attempts at relationships were doomed because he couldn't open up, well, it was just something else about himself that he'd come to accept.

He didn't really care. He'd come to enjoy being alone…

Until he met Sara.

Suddenly, the idea of sharing his life with someone tempted him for the first time in years. Without him even noticing it, Sara broke through all his defenses. Gradually, the idea that he might deserve to be happy after all took a hold on him. One day, he realized that he wanted a relationship just as much as she did.

But for this relationship to work, he needed to put some demons to rest.

"Now I need to know," Gil said. "I've lived with this for too long, Al. It's kept me from moving forward. I guess I was afraid of the truth but not anymore. One way or the other, I'd rather know than go on living like this. It's too exhausting."

Robbins nodded in understanding.

"I promise to tell you truth, whatever it is," he said solemnly, "But if I can't find anything -"

"I'll accept it," Grissom said. "I just want to know that I did everything I could."

* * *

The following morning, Grissom sat in the waiting room just outside the morgue.

He'd signed off the exhumation documents and he'd personally supervised the removal of the coffin from the cemetery, but he refrained from attending the autopsy itself. Robbins would have let him in, but Grissom decided to follow protocol; he was there as a civilian, not as a criminalist. He would wait.

He glanced around. There were other people waiting for information. Some were crying over their death relatives, others were angry at the senselessness of the crimes or the accidents that had taken their loved ones' lives.

Compared to them, Gil felt lucky. Time had dulled his own pain.

A door opened and everybody looked up expectantly. It was an assistant, and he motioned Gil to follow him.

They didn't go into the morgue itself; as a courtesy to Gil, the local coroner had assigned Robbins a separate room to ensure their privacy.

Grissom felt strange, entering the room without putting on protective gear first. But then, he wasn't there to handle any evidence.

Once the door closed behind him, Grissom gazed at Robbins and then at the body on the slab. They were covered with a white sheet.

"Any news?" Gil asked tentatively.

"I believe I have the answer."

"You do?" Grissom couldn't hide his surprise

"Some of the information you gave me yesterday helped," Robbins said, motioning him to approach. "I went back to the files and read some passages all over again. Some of the notes made by your dad's doctor didn't make sense to me until you mentioned the seizures."

"But my father didn't have a seizure -"

"Hear me out," Robbins said patiently. "You heard the doctor mention a seizure, didn't you? Well, that cleared up some of the notes he made when he first became your father's physician. Your father had epilepsy, Gil."

Grissom frowned.

"But there was never any indication -" he hesitated. "Unless he had it completely under control."

"Well, people with epilepsy can usually keep it in check by taking medication," Robbins nodded, "In your dad's case, however, the drugs couldn't control the seizures and stronger measures had to be taken. He had surgery when he was twenty years old."

Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"Surgery?"

"Uh, huh. In some cases, surgery's performed to remove the area of the brain causing the seizures. In your father's case, they did what it's called an ATL -an anterior temporal lobectomy."

Grissom didn't comment. He was clearly stunned by Robbins' discovery.

"The operation has changed little over the years," Al continued, "What the neurosurgeon does is remove a section of bone -or flap- from the skull; he makes an incision through the protective membranes of the brain, reaches the anterior temporal lobe and removes it. Then he closes every layer of tissue that he cut through, returns the bone flap into place, sutures the muscles and tissues of the scalp -and that's it."

"How effective is this surgery?"

"Well, results may vary depending on the expertise of the neurosurgeon," Al explained. "His main goal is to allow the patient to live a full life, without any collateral damage. In a worst-case scenario, an operation like this can lead to problems with speech, sight, movement or hearing. Your father seems to have fared well -"

"- until that evening?" Grissom finished.

Robbins nodded.

Grissom had not looked at the body on the slab, but he couldn't put it off any longer. His gaze rested on the sheet-covered remains. They didn't occupy much space.

He looked up.

"So what went wrong?" he asked softly.

"Based on the physical evidence, I believe I can reconstruct what may have happened," Robbins said, and he lifted a corner of the sheet until it left part of the skull uncovered.

"The operation went well," he said, "But there was one problem -one that couldn't be detected on time. See here?" he asked, pointing at a spot on the skull. When Gil leant over, he added, "A non-fused portion of bone."

"A fissure," Gil said, examining it closely.

"Exactly," Robbins said. "The skull didn't fully heal after the brain surgery."

Grissom looked up sharply.

"He lived for twenty years with this?"

"Well, he led a quiet life," Robbins said, "A guy dabbling in sports would have had some kind of trouble much sooner."

Grissom straightened up but kept his gaze on the skull.

"Was his death related to the epilepsy, then?"

"This is where I can only _assume_ what happened, Gil," Robbins said gently, "It would fit the facts -the few we have. There was a brief note in your dad's medical file; something about a fall. According to the doctor, your dad fell off a ladder a few days before his death."

Grissom frowned.

"He was installing a trellis -" he said slowly. "But he wasn't seriously hurt."

"Well, he certainly didn't lose consciousness. In fact, his doctor seemed more concerned about your dad's ankle, and ordered some X rays. As it turned out, the ankle was fine."

He paused, and then he added, "Since your dad didn't return to the doctor's office, I assume he felt fine and returned to his normal, every-day activities. He may have complained of a headache, but he probably managed by taking aspirin."

"Are you saying the fall was more serious than he let on?"

"I believe the fall caused a hematoma -a subdural hematoma, to be more precise. Normally, a person with a hematoma would have suffered headaches, and he would have eventually gone to the hospital. But in your father's case, the skull was already traumatized…´"

"The non-fused bone," Grissom whispered.

"I think your father was feeling a bit lethargic in those final days. Sleepy. Since he wasn't an active man, there was no reason for concern -"

Gil listened to Robbins' explanation, but there was only one thought in his mind now, "He was slowly dying."

Robbins nodded.

"One evening, he sat on the couch to read, and then he simply fell asleep," he said gently. "Your father's doctor knew about the epilepsy and he erroneously thought there had been a recurrence."

They were silent for a moment.

Grissom shook his head.

"So, there was an explanation after all," he whispered. Then he glanced at Robbins, "One explanation, at least."

"Gil… To me, this _is_ what happened," Robbins said. After a moment's hesitation, he put his hand on Gil's shoulder. "You said it yourself," he added kindly, "It's time to let go. There is only one thing left for you to do now."

He let his hand linger for just a couple of seconds, and then he turned and left the room.

Grissom looked at him and then he looked down.

And suddenly, he knew what Robbins meant.

He'd never said goodbye to his dad.

He stood for a long while, simply looking at the covered remains. Finally, he gently folded the sheet back.

Robbins had cleaned up the body for the autopsy, and the skull gleamed under the lights.

Grissom looked at it, trying to remember what his father had looked like all those years ago. To his surprise, he found himself conjuring a series of pictures in his mind. He remembered his father laughing - he could even see the tiny laugh lines around his eyes and the uneven teeth –just like his own!

As more images crowded his mind, he suddenly realized how much he'd missed over the years. Some of those memories were painful but knowing that he'd repressed them for so long hurt even more.

Now he could finally enjoy them.

There was one memory that stood out among others, one that he hoped to treasure forever. In it, his father was crouching near a rosebush, lifting a leaf so Grissom could take a closer look at a butterfly's cocoon.

_"See?"_ his father said, his eyes filled with pride as his son showed an interest in his work.

Tears fell upon the starchy sheet as Grissom suddenly rediscovered his past.

He gently laid a hand where a cheek should have been, and as he tried to conjure the feel of warm skin, he whispered, "Dad.

* * *

"TBC


	12. SUNDAY MORNING

Sunday Morning

Just that.

Romance. After the events of 'Dead Doll', Grissom takes care of Sara.

Just a fluffy conversation...

* * *

Gil Grissom poured some shower gel on a soft sponge with the carefulness of a scientist measuring a precious elixir, then glanced at the woman in the bathtub. 

Sara was sitting back, with her head comfortably resting on a bathtub pillow. Her eyes were closed, and a faint smile was gracing her lips.

Grissom smiled. Sara had resisted his suggestion that she take a bath -she considered it a waste of water- but she'd finally given in after he pointed out how the cool water would do her skin good after the harsh exposure it been through.

Now Gil congratulated himself on his ability to convince her; she looked happy and relaxed. In fact, if it hadn't been for her arm resting on the edge of the tub, it would seem she was simply indulging herself.

But the sight of her broken arm was a reminder of the recent events, and the memory always cast a sobering shadow on Gil's thoughts.

She could have died out there… He could have lost her.

"Hmmmm," Sara sighed without opening her eyes. "Apple."

Grissom blinked, then looked down at the sponge in his hand. The shower gel was apple-scented.

"Yes," he said, managing a casual tone. "Want me to wash your back?"

She nodded but didn't immediately move. First she opened her eyes.

"Hey," she smiled.

He kneeled down beside her.

"Hey," he whispered.

"How was your night?" she smiled.

"Good," he said. "Didn't get out much. Left the heavy footwork to the other guys."

Sara slowly sat up so he could reach her back.

He winced a little at the sight of her reddish skin but didn't say anything about it.

"You know," he said as he gently washed her back, "I've been getting envious glances lately."

Sara glanced over her shoulder.

"Envious glances? From whom?"

"From every male cop, technician and CSI -"

"But why?"

"Well… Because I'm dating one of the most desirable women in the lab."

Sara turned.

"_Dating_." She repeated, a faint smile on her lips. "You'd never used that word before."

Gil frowned.

"Yes, I have," he said, pausing in his ministrations. "Haven't I?"

"Not in front of me," she said, then she turned again.

"What about you?" Grissom asked after a moment. "You didn't get any envious glances from the women," he said. He wasn't asking.

Sara glanced over shoulder again.

"Actually... I think 'puzzled' would be the right word," she said thoughtfully. "I think they're wondering what the heck you saw in me. "

"That's not it," Grissom replied, "They're just wondering why on earth you got involved with me."

She laughed and looked away.

"Well. One a lab technician did ask me if I wasn't put off by your love of insects. It seems they believe you keep cockroaches and spiders the way other people keep canaries. Or cats; you know, crawling all over your furniture."

"But you set them straight, right?"

Sara didn't answer.

Grissom stopped washing her back.

"Sara?"

She turned but didn't reply. She merely smiled.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You're letting them think I commune with insects? Why?"

Her smile was sweet as she explained.

"Because, if I told them how wonderful you really are, I'd be getting more competition than I can handle."

Grissom paused for a moment, then smiled. He leant forward and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Thank you, honey," he said.

* * *

THE END 


	13. HANK'S RETURN

Hank's return

The louse is back! Hank is back, with an offer Sara can't refuse.

Humor.

Technically, this is not a GS story, but it _is_ a conversation...

* * *

Sara Sidle was not happy. 

As she sat at the dingiest coffee shop she'd ever been in, she glanced at her watch, and then back at the booklet in her hand. She read a couple of lines, then glanced at her watch again.

She impatiently drummed her fingers on table but stopped when she found that the surface was stained and sticky with something she hoped was spilled coffee. She looked around for a napkin but didn't find any. She ended up wiping her fingers on the booklet.

She glanced around again.

Yep; this was the worst coffee shop ever. It was poorly lit and unsanitary, and yet, these facts were actually reassuring to her. There was no way that her coworkers would ever come to a place like this.

It was important to her than nobody saw her here.

At least, not tonight.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of steps approaching. Hank was coming back, carrying two Styrofoam cups.

As Sara covertly looked at him from head to toe, she wondered, yet again, what she ever saw in him.

"Here's your tea!" he said, putting the cup in front of her in a grand gesture, "Are you sure you don't want a donut with that?"

"I'm sure," Sara said. She took a sip of her tea, then put it back. She didn't really need a drink.

She didn't want to be there and she didn't want to talk to Hank, but the man had suddenly appeared at the lab asking for her, and Sara had hastily agreed to give him ten minutes.

As she glanced at her watch, she noticed that Hank had already used up eight.

Hank took the seat opposite hers.

"I appreciate this, Sara," he said earnestly, "To tell you the truth, I didn't think you'd accept my invitation -"

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to be seen talking to you in the lab."

She was purposefully blunt but her words had no visible effect on Hank.

"Well, I appreciate it," he repeated. He leant forward. "I know we didn't part in the best of circumstances -"

"That's one way to put it," Sara muttered expressionlessly.

"- but I want you to know that you've been in my thoughts lately."

"Gee, thanks," Sara said with heavy sarcasm, but, once again, Hank didn't get it.

"Well, we had a common interest, after all," he reasoned. He leant forward, "What I said on our way over is the truth, you know. I never met anyone who's as passionate about this as you are. In fact," and he lowered his voice, "You were the one who first introduced me to it."

Sara looked down at the booklet in her hand. She didn't like where this was going.

"Look," she started, "If you're trying to make me feel guilty -"

"No, no," he said, "That's not my intention at all. But you did change my life, after all. So, hum, I was hoping you'd find it in your heart to give me a chance."

She cleared her throat.

"Well, I don't know," she started, then stopped.

There was no use in discussing this. She could tell by the look on Hank's face, that he'd never take no for an answer. Besides -why deny it?- she did feel sorry for the man.

"I guess I could give it a year," she said tentatively.

"A year?" he winced, "But… but I lost my job!" he bemoaned, "Didn't I tell you that? My life's a wreck!"

"I'm sorry," Sara said, trying to be firm, "One-year is all I can commit to!"

"But... but... " Hank seemed at a loss for a moment, then uttered what he clearly considered his trump card, "You're the only one who can help! My wife doesn't understand me -not like you!"

"Oh, all right!" Sara said, giving up. She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. She still didn't know what she ever saw in him. "You win." She picked a pen from a pocket and set to fill out the booklet. "I'll get the three-year subscription to Vegetarian Today!"

* * *

THE END 


End file.
